


Elemental

by Calebski



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professors, F/M, Hogwarts Professors, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, one shot series, wolf mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23648653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calebski/pseuds/Calebski
Summary: Four-part, multi-pairing, one-shot series inspired by the elements.Water - Fenrir Greyback x Hermione GrangerAir - Severus Snape x Hermione GrangerEarth - Remus Lupin x Hermione GrangerFire - Sirius Black x Hermione Granger
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fenrir Greyback, Hermione Granger/Remus Lupin, Hermione Granger/Severus Snape, Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Comments: 73
Kudos: 225





	1. WATER

[Fenrir Greyback x Hermione Granger]

_Water is the element of constant movement, it swirls inside each of us no matter how placid the surface may appear. It is the element of conception and death, of illusions and fairytales, holding the secret to our soul - its beginning and its end._

/~/~/~/

 _“Water, water everywhere,_ _  
_ _Nor any drop to drink.”_ _  
_ _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1797–98]_

* * *

Fenrir’s trudging steps finally halted when he reached the bank of a vast pool of water. It wasn’t quite big enough to be classified as a lake, but when he considered the vegetation that surrounded the area, he knew it had to be deep. So it would do, for now at least. 

Fenrir had been sure that there was a source around here, but it had taken him longer to find than he would have liked. He hadn’t been in these parts for some years, and it wasn’t as if he could follow any of the other animals that inhabited the forest. They had fled to safety as soon as he began his search and, for once, Fenrir was in no mood to give chase.

Still, even with those complications, Fenrir knew it shouldn’t have taken him hours to track down water. It was a testament to how scattered his ever-reliable senses were that he’d had trouble with something he had been doing without thought for years. 

Fenrir sat on the hard ground and removed his heavy outer coat and shoes. He understood the _necessity_ of the garb, but he resented it also. Fenrir had no desire to _appear_ human, even part-time, he was a wolf and proud of it. The animal the bite on the side of his torso had unleashed had fused so tightly to him that it was all Fenrir was now. 

He had no regrets. 

Fenrir threw his costume of humanity onto the damp ground and took a moment to relish the feel of dirt on his bare soles. It didn’t matter how long Fenrir spent walking among regular wizards for the good of his pack, his feet never adapted to the feel of heavy boots. He grew to hate the way his skin softened when he had been within the land of men too long. Immediately Fenrir knew that the first thing he would do, when he eventually got home, would be to run in the forest and allow its scarred floor to reclaim his flesh. 

The sun had risen an hour or so before, but the light hadn’t fully crept across the vastness of the landscape yet. The almost lake in front of him was still, tranquil, Fenrir could imagine it was lying in wait, anticipating his next move. The water was as much a predator as he was, only it had a much better reputation. Fenrir scowled at its unblemished surface as he caught sight of his reflection and remembered why he had _needed_ to come. 

Fenrir pulled his well-worn shirt over his head and let himself feel the rising wind against his skin, it was calming. Soon it would be too cold to be without layers unless he was running, but for right now it, it was exactly the right balance of pleasure and pain that he had been craving since he had last been able to spill blood to sate the torrent that had been unleashed within him. 

Fenrir looked up at the crisp, blue-hue of the morning sky and tracked a couple of birds that were gliding in the distance. He wondered what he looked like from their point of view - sitting in the middle of an open, deserted vista. A sitting duck, if he could ever be something so unguarded. 

The fact that he was still in the Scottish Highlands was complete folly, Fenrir knew that, but he was a man governed by his _greater impulses_ and every molecule of his being forbade him from going too far, for now. There was almost no viable reason to be where he was, apart from _her_. Fenrir couldn’t return to his pack until he knew what he was going to do next. Not until he was back to feeling like himself. 

If he went back after a month of absence and showed any sign of weakness at all, it was likely to mean a fight. While Fenrir held no fear that the end of his dominance was approaching, he did consider it foolhardy to kill too many of his pack at a time when he was doing all he could to protect their numbers. With the feeling of _her_ raging through his blood and agitating his wolf, Fenrir knew it would be harder to control his rage than normal; any lack of respect or hostility from anyone and it could lead to a bloodbath. 

The Death Eaters had disappeared into the night after the end of their mission, no doubt heading back to their crumbling gothic mansions to celebrate the inevitable _good favour_ their Lord would bestow. Fenrir had no taste for revelry. 

He shook his head, that wasn’t true. In fact it was the opposite. Fenrir had _so much_ taste for debauchery that his mouth was nearly overflowing with need, but he would no longer be gratified by drink, blood or inferior flesh. Only one would be able to stem the tide of hunger in him now, and he couldn’t take her. Not yet. 

For a wolf that denied himself nothing, patience came hard. Fenrir had not even had a day of it, and he could already feel the itch beginning. 

He knew before long the pull would get worse. 

Fenrir stood to pull off his jeans that were old they had all but moulded to his body, and he threw them with the rest of the pile. 

The invasion of Hogwarts castle had gone better than he could have ever anticipated. Not only had the little Malfoy mop managed to get them in - no doubt saving his worthless skin along with his father’s - but Dumbledore was dead. 

Fenrir had taken great pleasure in watching the man plummet after he had been struck down. A bright, bolt of a shocking green right to the heart. It wasn’t Fenrir’s preferred kill method, he would and normally have complained about the speed of proceedings, but this was different. There wasn’t time, and it was another barrier out of his way to get to his overall goal. Few men on the planet would have had a chance of keeping him from her now that he had found her. The old man had been one, and he had perished. 

Fenrir knew he would need to reassess Lord Voldemort’s forces before long, the events of the evening before had thrown more than one wrench into his plans. Fenrir liked to keep a running tab on the Death Eaters, to give them titles in his mind as he would if they were wolves in his pack. It told him who to keep an eye on, and who to eliminate. Had it all just gone to plan with no surprises, Fenrir would have been doing precisely that. He would already be home, sitting in front of a dying fire with his Beta, explaining the details of the attack and deciding on their ongoing course of action. 

But none of that seemed to matter now. 

He had seen _her_. 

Had smelt _her_. 

One battle had changed his whole life. 

-/-/-/-

_Fenrir was stalking through a maze of corridors; he had been tasked with eliminating anyone he could find that might give them trouble when they tried to exit. The Lord had been very particular about the Malfoy pup having ample time to try to do the deed before any of them were to intervene. Fenrir might have scoffed, but he knew better than to voice his disapproval._

_Bellatrix had already skipped off to spread her own brand of rambling evil which left Fenrir to explore to his heart's content. Though he had been around the grounds of the old castle often he had only been inside once before, and Fenrir was sure he wouldn’t have a chance again, not until Voldemort took over as he planned._

_Fenrir got a perverse kind of pleasure from thinking about how the residents of the castle would react to seeing him within their sanctuary. Werewolves didn’t belong inside Hogwarts, not unless you were willing to subject yourself to being little more than a pet for the side of the Light. After all, even a well cared for dog was still a dog, and if there was ever a choice, its needs would be placed beneath those of its human counterparts every time._

_When Fenrir had gotten word of Lupin teaching in the school his initial fury had quickly given way to amusement, he supposed it shouldn’t have surprised him, Remus had always been so irritatingly fixated on ‘fitting in’ and being ‘normal’. The Omega should have embraced his superiority when Fenrir had been so good as to gift it to him. He should have come to join his pack, and not just as an ineffectual spy but as a full member, a wolf willing to throw off the shackles of humanity and live life as nature intended. But Remus had preferred to cloak himself further, to dress up as one of them and teach their young as if he was accepted._

_Fenrir had laughed when Lupin had been sent away from the school in disgrace, only a year he had lasted. After everything he had done for Dumbledore that was all the old man would give him, and yet he Remus cowed and begged at the Order’s table for scraps._

_Pathetic._

-/-/-/-

_It didn’t take long for the Order to arrive, news of a break-in at the school - and the obvious danger it presented - would naturally have travelled fast. Fenrir barely reacted, he was ready for them, that was why he had been sent. He was a beast honed to understand the proper application of adrenaline; he felt the shift in his body often enough to know how to utilise the flight or fight response in a way his opponents would never have been able to appreciate._

_Fenrir had just gotten the best of a scrawny looking Auror that had Lupin’s scent all over her when, suddenly, his awareness shifted. The room around him seem to stretch and then collapse in a matter of seconds, while the air began to hum with a magical charge, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Fenrir forgot all about the spent witch in front of him, he forgot he was in the middle of a tensely fought battle. All he could focus on was the feeling somewhere inside his very centre that was propelling him forward with an urgency he had not felt since the night he had successfully challenged to become Alpha._

_His wolf howled and thrashed against his ribs, commanding him to get to the other side of the room no matter if he died doing it. Fenrir clutched at the neck of his shirt and all but staggered forward as if an invisible force moved his legs._

_Then he saw her._

_She was standing with a defensive posture, her arms raised in front of her body and her back pressed into a redhead girl behind her as she shot hexes in a wild, frantic spree._

_Her hair bounced and scattered as she shifted her position, and her large brown eyes burned with an intent that Fenrir had seen in the mirror often enough to interpret readily. She meant_ _everything_ _she was casting. Failure was not an option._

 _Fenrir felt the need to surround her with his body, to remove her from everyone’s view and to keep her still so he could get a good look at_ _all_ _she was._

_He wanted to know what every bit of her skin’s pigment looked like under every kind of light._

_He wanted to know what her curls would feel like when pulled into his grip._

_He wanted to map her._

_He wanted to conquer her._

_Fenrir was halfway across the room before Bill Weasley stupidly stepped into his path. It was an uneven match on the best of days, but today, with Fenrir able to caress his newly found mate’s cheek with his gaze, and deeply breathe her into his lungs? The boy didn’t stand a chance and Fenrir had no desire to give him one._

_For once, Fenrir did not play with his food, he quickly incapacitated and then scratched at the Weasley scion, carving deep lacerations into his freckled face before he threw his worthless body aside. Only one person's flesh would interest him now._

_But she had gone._

-/-/-/-

_Fenrir’s commitment to the mission evaporated in an instant, the only thing that mattered to him now was finding her again and grabbing her so they could leave before anyone else came close to touching her._

_He could ask for forgiveness later._

_He would kneel before Voldemort and say anything he needed to get the outcome he wanted. But he wouldn’t believe a word of it. The Lord held no power over him in this._

_She was his._

-/-/-/-

_She didn’t take long to find, she never would now, Fenrir would be able to locate her in a room of thousands._

_Fenrir knew he didn’t have time for this, he needed to be up in the tower any moment, but he smelt her, hiding in an alcove._

_She was on his way, like she was meant to be taken._

_“We have to find Bill.”_

_The harsh voice was almost enough to break Fenrir from his concentration, but not quite. He saw a flash of red and knew she was with the same girl as before._

_“Not now,” she chided._

_Hearing his mate’s voice made the blood in Fenrir’s body freeze. He stood as still as a statute, barely breathing as he waited for her to say more, but at the same time, he was desperate to press his large hand over her mouth so he could snatch her words away before they were freed._

_He wanted them for himself._

_Her voice was commanding but soft, and her speech was uttered at a much more sensible register than her companion, given there were supposed to be hiding._

_“Hermione,” the Weasley brat whined._

_Fenrir’s world stopped for the second time that evening. How could he not have realised before?_ _Hermione Granger_ _, Potter’s friend. She was… her? Fenrir smashed his fist against the nearest wall and grunted as he felt a bone give way. There would be no taking her now, not tonight. Forgiveness was not going to be enough. He would need permission._

 _The word felt dirty even in his mind, allowing himself to be subjugated to claim_ _his_ _mate was abhorrent. But somehow, in this twisted reality where_ _she_ _was Hermione Granger, it had become necessary._

_Fuck._

_Fenrir tried to drag himself away then, to put some distance between them before he was unable to do so. To act without thinking now could mean the end of both their lives and that was truly unacceptable._

_But then he heard them whispering again, and he couldn’t deny himself - his wolf - the chance to listen to her speak again._

_“Hermione, we have to go check on him, he fought with Greyback.”_

_“He will be fine Ginny, Fleur is with him, the only thing we would achieve now would be getting hurt ourselves, which would help no one. We are better off staying here and trying to round up the remaining members of the DA.”_

_“You’re right,” the other girl sighed. “I just can’t believe they sent that… that_ _animal_ _into the school! He didn’t even look human, did you see his teeth?”_

_“Ginny,” she, Hermione, chastised, “I was concentrating on fighting.”_

_“But you always notice people’s teeth?”_

_“That’s what happens when you’re raised by Dentists, but it was hardly the time to contemplate oral health. There were other, more important things to observe.”_

_“What like his hair?”_

_“You are ridiculous. You are the only person I could have this type of conversation within this kind of situation.”_

_“Let me prattle it helps with my nerves.”_

_“Fine, if we must, what was wrong with his hair?”_

_“What do you want a list? How about how it was matted back with who knows what, or the way it hung in the front of his face in straggly, greasy clumps.”_

_Fenrir moved to stand closer to their hiding spot and saw her nose wrinkle in apparent agreement. “I suppose,” she replied, and Fenrir frowned._

_This was how she saw him? Or rather, that was how the Weasley child had seen him,_ _she_ _hadn’t noticed him at all._

_He would change that._

-/-/-/-

Fenrir had known _she_ had been there, close but out of reach, for some time. He had sensed his true mate in the same way he had heard others describe it from their own experience, but he’d had no idea who she was, until now. Of course he found her in the heat of battle, where else would he have come across his own other half? That she was technically on the other side of this fight was unimportant, more significant forces were at play than the game of chess Voldemort and Dumbledore had been playing for so long. 

Light and dark were relative terms, and Fenrir had never subscribed to any of the labels given to him by others. His only true loyalty was to his pack, and that’s what she was now, pack. 

As the land around him began to brighten, Fenrir sauntered into the middle of the water. It was cold, as he had expected, and the bed beneath his feet was course, but he had never been one to place a value in comfort of any kind.

Once he was deep enough, Fenrir dropped to his knees and then fell forward far enough that he could submerge his head. 

Vanity was an unusual _and unwelcome_ emotion for Fenrir, he had never cared what anyone thought he looked like before. He didn’t suppose the Weasley chit would have bothered to learn he had been travelling for the best part of three weeks to get there on time. 

Fenrir had never considered what he looked like to others either, he had never had too. Such considerations he left to the younger males in his pack. In truth, Fenrir had always found some amusement in the way they altered themselves to appear to the best advantage when chasing their wants. He had no experience of such things himself. In his lifetime women had always come to him, whether because they were attracted to him physically or just his position, he had never sought to inquire. 

This was different. 

_She_ was different. 

It wasn’t just about the girl though, _Hermione_ \- she had been _the girl_ , _woman_ or _unknown female_ for so long it was difficult to reset his thinking and use her name know he knew it. Fenrir wanted to wash himself free of all of those that had been before, to come to her fresh, for his face to be something that no one else had ever looked on. So that when she gave into him - and she would - what she would see would have been witnessed by no other. 

But he couldn’t do that. So he would settle for what he _could_ do. 

Fenrir stood up in the water that was now around his middle and removed his wand from the leather holster he kept strapped to his bicep. He didn’t use his wand for much; it was too distant a weapon for his tastes, Fenrir preferred to feel the torment he inflicted with his teeth or claws. But that preference wasn’t the same as not being able to use magic if he wanted. His knowledge may have been archaic and basic, but he was skilled at what he needed to survive.

Staring at the water's surface for a long moment, Fenrir lifted his wand in the air and swept it over his head, muttering as he went. His long hair fell in clumps all around him before sinking into the depths below. Once he was finished Fenrir swam forward until he could drop under the surface and wash away all trace of what he had done.

As he stepped back out of the water and let himself dry, Fenrir pushed a hand through what remained of his hair. It was shorter than he had it in years and was sure to raise a few eyebrows when he got back to his pack. He hoped it would be enough to give Hermione a moment's hesitation. When they met again, he would only need seconds before he could take her away. 

But when? 

For the first time in his adult life, Fenrir didn’t have a plan. He couldn’t march back into the school to get her, and if she were anywhere near as smart as they said she was, he wouldn’t be able to get her on her own anytime soon. 

Fenrir stared at the pool as he got himself dressed watching every ripple as it formed and spread. 

She was like the water, as free and as wild as nature herself. 

She was surface level calm that hid an ever-building torent underneath. 

She was the harbinger of life and the bringer of death. 

She appeared where she was truly needed. 

And he knew it all, at little more than a glance because she had been _made_ for him. 

* * *

A year. It had taken a _fucking_ year. Month upon month where Fenrir had to hold himself back even though his skin itched. Lunar cycle after lunar cycle where he had to be physically restrained to stop his wolf from claiming her too soon. He had never denied his wolf anything, not since the first day he had been turned. Yet, he had denied him _her,_ and it made him feel like he was on fire. 

The only thing that alleviated his growing rage even the smallest amount was revenge. 

Once Fenrir had made it back home after finding Hermione he had spent several days compiling information on her, he started with his own remembrances of Death Eater meetings and reports and then scouted out what he needed to fill the blanks. 

He _knew_ that Dolohov had mentioned her a few times.

He _learned_ that the Russian Death Eater had burnt a mark across her chest in her fourth year. 

He _slashed_ a matching wound across into him during a routine mission and blamed it on bloodlust. 

He _waited_ for Antonin to seize the opportunity for his own revenge. Then, Fenrir promised himself, then he would kill him. 

A year of waiting and the night was finally here. Fenrir thought there was a kind of provenance to finally claiming his mate on the night that the wizard who got in his way when he had first found her, was getting married. It was _his_ kind of poetry, the kind that came with fear and scars. 

Fenrir leaned forward from the edge of his bed and dipped his fingers into the reddened clay he had collected earlier. He didn’t need a mirror to apply the double lines across his cheeks. It was something his ancestors would have done. They came to these shores to make their fortune, claimed lands and everything else in between. 

Fenrir painted himself for battle.

He painted himself to be noticed. 

_Let the Weasley girl say you couldn't see his face now._ No one would leave that night without his image printed into their minds. 

She wouldn’t smell him, not like he could smell her. But she would, he would teach her. 

There had been others of course, he was old after all. But none had been perfect, none had been fated, none had been his. 

Not like she was. 

Blood, flesh and soul. 

_His._


	2. AIR

[Severus Snape x Hermione Granger]

 _Air is the element that connects all other elements, even though it might seem less relevant, invisible as it is. It is the_ _element that exists within and creates all others. We may say that the beginning of life wouldn’t be possible without fire, but there would be no fire on our planet without Air._

/~/~/~/

 _“Between two lungs it was released,  
_ _the breath that carried me,  
_ _the sigh that blew me forward”  
_ _Between Two Lungs, Florence + the Machine [2009]_

* * *

Severus strode down the corridor, his fury rising with each and every step. He ground his teeth in an attempt to hold back the words he wanted to spit, even though the hall was deserted and there was no one there to hear them. His robes billowed behind him in a way that made him feel like a parody of his old self, and his long cuffs chafed against the thin skin on his wrists. It was uncomfortable to be so buttoned up all day, but old habits die hard. With everything that had happened in his life, Severus held the familiar close, even if he didn’t like it. 

When he had first decided to don the black, black and more black teaching robes, it was when he was returning to Hogwarts. Graduation had been such a short time before and there he was, back again, and now a member of the staff. Unwanted by his new peers and disrespected by the student body he had so recently been a part of. Severus had wanted to wear something that at least gave the illusion of age and maturity. He had thought of changing them for his return this time, but he had hesitated. He would hate nothing more than for a change to be remarked upon, or wondered over. Severus did not want to become a source of intrigue for the general populace, and so he stuck with the old robes that helped him become one with the shadows. They also had the added benefit of covering his scars, which, following the last war, covered his entire body like the cruellest kind of typography. 

The journey across the castle from his rooms in the dungeons to the third-floor History of Magic classroom should have taken him twice as long, but Severus was in no mood to dally. This may never have been a route he often took before, but in the two years since his return, he had travelled it enough to have familiarised himself with all the shortcuts. 

History of Magic had moved in his absence, out of the cavernous lecture hall Binns had prefered - _or not, nobody knew_ \- and up to a higher vantage closer to Charms. 

Severus turned another corner perfectly in time with the end of the third period. A cloud of students soon billowed from the classroom to his right and quickly scattered once they noticed the unexpected potions master and his foreboding expression. Despite his bad mood, Severus couldn’t hold back a smirk. A reputation like his was no easy thing; it made him cautious and wary and never allowed him to turn his back. But it could part a group of fifteen-year-olds like the Red Sea, which, given his line of work, was hugely helpful. 

Most of these students knew who he was; they had been at the school for their first years before he left. There were others, younger, that had viewed him as something of a myth come to life when he returned to resume his former potions master role. Severus could find less humour in that. It was difficult to decide whether the knowing eyes or the assuming ones were worse. He supposed he would never have to pick; he would always be able to get his fill of both wherever he went. 

After the war, his recovery had been slow, though arguably, any recovery at all was a positive thing for someone who was presumed dead. Lying on the dirty floor and feeling the blood pouring from his throat had not been as terrifying as it should have been. Severus had found a sort of peace within himself as he had felt his life seep away. When he had succumbed to the often mentioned ‘white light’ he was almost disheartened to wake up again. Only, instead of his ‘maker’ standing above him, ready to measure his sins, he had found a disgruntled looking Mediwitch writing up his chart as he came to his senses in St Mungos. His gratitude for being handed back his paltry existence hadn’t exactly been overflowing. 

It took Severus six months before he was able to properly look after himself, and a full year before he had recovered the use of his vocal cords.

Then he had been struck by the hardest part of his post-war existence. The day he was discharged from the hospital he was given a bag with the filthy clothes he came in with and sent on his way with a smile and a wave from the no doubt relieved medical team.

Severus was a man that had not been responsible for his own choices since he was a child, or, possibly ever, and he did not take well to figuring out what to do next. He took another three years out, staying outside of Britain and picking up the occasional brewing job to fund his rather simple lifestyle. 

In the end, Hogwarts, or rather Headmistress McGonagall as she was now, had called him back. Severus had been reluctant to rejoin the faculty, but he couldn’t help but feel a fluttering of excitement at the thought of returning to his old life, with none of the pressures he’d had before. To put it simply, he was lonely. A ridiculous emotion for someone that had been alone their whole life, and yet… Before there had always been an excuse, something to hide behind. The war, childhood neglect, or his life as a spy. Those reasonings were slipping away. 

Three years is a long time to be alone with your regrets. 

Finally, the last of the chattering students vanished as if they had never been there and Severus made his way to the end of the corridor unhindered. He didn’t even check to see if the classroom ahead of him was empty before he barged through the door in a blaze of wrath. Only, _she_ wasn’t there. He whirled around until he spotted a door ajar at the back and walked straight into her office without waiting for an invitation.

“You,” he barked fiercely before the door had even fully closed behind him. Privacy was usually of the gravest concern, but right then Severus couldn’t have cared if the whole castle could hear him. Perhaps they could? He was undoubtedly shouting loud enough. 

The _you_ in question, Professor Granger, looked up from her place behind her desk and winced. With that one expression, he knew more than he would have from his planned, protracted arguments to get her to tell him everything. She knew why he was there, why he was so enraged. His heart wanted his ire to wane in light of her obvious discomfort, but his head would absolutely not allow it. 

“You have no right to do this,” he insisted, plucking the letter he had received that morning out of his robes and waving it in the air. 

Professor Granger sighed and stood from behind the desk, walking around it so she could lean against its front. _Gryffindor until the end of that one_. While others might have cowered further when faced with his righteous indignation, she never did. From the moment he had arrived back in the castle, she had challenged him, almost dared him to treat her like the student she had been. Hermione Granger _insisted_ that he consider her an equal through her actions and demeanour alone and, begrudgingly, Severus had begun to do so. That was what made all this sting so much worse.

Severus saw the defiant, expectant raise of her delicate chin and swooped forward. He was sure the war had toughened Hermione to the weathered extent of any battled soldier. But _he_ was more than that. War had broken and reforged him, and Hermione was no match for the creature he became when he was drowning in hurt anger. 

She no doubt expected him to play fair, assuming that if she faced him head-on, it would stop him from using his height advantage to intimate and loom over her. She was wrong. Severus would use any tool in his disposal to win the day. Except on this occasion, he couldn’t imagine anyone would come out feeling victorious, least of all him. He moved towards her, feeling a sense of extreme satisfaction when she fell into his substantial shadow. While the intervening years had brought her more accolades than anyone had the right to expect, it hadn’t made her any taller.

“You have no right,” he said again as he stood so close to her that their toes almost met. Hermione looked up at him, brown eyes meeting black, and he watched as she swallowed. 

“Sadly, Severus,” she began with a barely-there voice, “I believe I have been given every right.”

Usually, Hermione using his given name gave Severus a kind of unnamable pleasure, but not today. The first time Hermione had ever used it was six months after he joined. She had passed him a cup of coffee in the staff room, made just how he liked it and used it when she asked how his day was. Severus had been struck dumb at the time, and the intervening silence had been long enough for her to flush. He’d had the distinct impression that she had been practising ahead of time. Hermione had said his name with a determined kind of boldness that Severus had come to associate entirely with her. Today she said it sadly, with a resignation he didn’t understand. 

His fingers crumpled the parchment in his hand, and he fought to prevent himself from setting the damn thing on fire. He would struggle to keep this interaction secret if he accidentally incinerated her office. If worse came to worse, he could try to obliviate Hermione (Severus told himself, even though he already knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t) but he would struggle to rebuild the room without the headmistress finding out.

Severus snapped the parchment through the air, and the crack was emphasised by him losing control of his magic. It made Hermione blink and suck in a breath, but she said nothing. “ _My_ lessons,” he spat, glaring at her for all he was worth, “are going to be invigilated… by _you_?”

The ‘ _how could you?’_ that he wanted to ask, that he wanted to shake from her remained unspoken, but she, who always saw and heard more than she should, heard it anyway. 

“ _Severus_.”

Severus took a step back as he heard her entreaty. The warmth on her tongue changed to ice as it slid down his spine. He felt _betrayed_ he realised as he stared at her. He should have expected something like the letter but the fact that _she_ was involved, complicit in this latest humiliation, hurt him more than he would readily admit. Hermione had been something of an ally since he came back, and it had meant something to him. Sure, it had only been a few conversations in the staff room and a one time shared smile over a glass of wine at Christmas, but he had thought…. He had been wrong. 

“Don’t you _Severus_ me,” he seethed, hoping his palpable animosity covered any other emotion he might have been feeling. “Do you have _any idea_ how insulting this is?”

“Severus I-”

“ _Severus_ what? What are you going to say, Hermione? Why were you picked?”

Hermione was silent, and Severus felt his blood boil beneath his skin. He wordlessly vanished the letter back to his rooms, lest it inspired a further loss of control.

“You know _nothing_ of potions, no more than me in any case, so why would they pick _you_ to do this rather than an actual potions master, or at the very least, a more senior staff member?”

Hermione was silent, and Severus felt his mask slipping. _Who had asked her to do this? Was she even asked? Had she volunteered? Was every friendly interaction they had shared before this moment leading up to this? Had she coaxed him into a feeling of security only to laugh to herself as it was snatched away again?_

“What did they offer you? Why do they want _you_ to do this?”

“Professor Snape!”

Severus glowered until, unexpectedly, Hermione averted her eyes and stared at the ground. He noticed her fingers biting into the wood of the desk, as her hands rested on either side of her thighs until she gathered herself and stood. 

“Please sit down,” she asked as politely as their previous raised voices would allow and gestured towards the two armchairs in the corner of the room. 

Severus looked between the cosy set up and her face several times before he conceded to her request with bad grace. 

“I had hoped to avoid this,” she said, though it seemed to be to herself.

She sat carefully in her seat and drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair while she organised her thoughts. It was an action Severus had seen her do many times. To interrupt would startle her and no doubt lead to more delays, and so he made a valiant effort not to scream at her to hurry it up.

“There has been talk, since the war, there are several people on the board who were less than keen for you to return to teaching, putting it mildly.” Severus snorted and brushed non-existent lint off his trousers. Lucius Malfoy may have been a pompous arse, but when he was on the school board, people just shut up and did what he told them. 

“However, despite the… _feedback_ , Minerva was able to push ahead regardless. Whatever they might have thought of you, Slughorn had retired, and as far as she and some of the rest of us were concerned, there wasn’t a better candidate for the job. They couldn’t argue with that.”

Severus sat back in his seat and placed his restless hands on the tops of his knees. He had known that not everyone would have been ready and willing to welcome him back with open arms. He supposed he hadn’t taken into consideration how much of a fight Minerva had put in. He assumed the old dragon wouldn’t have taken kindly to the board imposing their will on her, whatever the issue. But still, it was news to him and something to ponder later, but he didn’t care about that right now. 

_Fuck the board._

_Fuck the disapproving parents._

_What about you?_

Hermione looked, probably hoping for him to say something to acknowledge what she had shared if he was reading her correctly, but Severus was not in a very compliant mood. He met her gaze for several long, tense seconds before she sighed and pushed a hair out of her face. She did that same thing when she was anxious, or stalling for time, that and bite her lip. Severus suddenly hated himself for how much he had observed. 

“We thought after a few disgruntled mutterings last year that everything was now settled. Recently, however, talk has started again, this time centred on your teaching practises.”

“Professor Granger,” Severus interjected in his most clipped formal tone. “I am assuming you have another lesson at some point today, might I suggest you speed this up?”

Hermione rubbed at her temples but made no other remark in reply to his increasing rudeness. 

“They want to get rid of you,” she stated baldly, just when Severus had begun to suspect that she would not say anything further. “There were numerous conversations, most of which, I was not involved in, but Minerva called me in when she thought that I could help.”

“Of course, she called you. After all, Hermione Granger is known the world over for her _people_ skills. The UN’s loss is the Hogwarts school board’s gain.”

Hermione slunk back in her chair, and Severus knew his sarcasm had hit the mark. He had known her long enough to appreciate that she was not one of life’s social butterflies. Hermione’s friends were few and far between, but her love was sincere and boundless. Much like him, he thought. He had meant to upset her, but he didn’t feel good about his success. 

“I offered to invigilate your lessons to investigate the claims myself as an alternative to a ministry representative. Well, I say I offered, I believe Minerva was guiding me into making that decision.”

“But why?”

Hermione fiddled with her fingers on her lap and looked off to something on the wall behind him, not meeting his eyes. Both were tells of nervousness Severus remembered from when she was a girl. 

“It was agreed that with my… war record that people would believe my findings to be above reproach. Also...” Hermione fidgeted in her seat as if he was somehow hexing her from his chair without knowing it. “It was suggested that you might find me, _my_ intrusion, less unpalatable than if it were someone else.”

Severus flushed. He was embarrassed he realised, embarrassed at being caught. _How had he become so unguarded that other people had noticed? Who?_

“I see,” he said, in a tone he usually reserved for his failing potions students. “Am I to understand that apparently, I have developed a tenderness… for _you?_ ”

Hermione swallowed at the implied insult, and Severus suddenly thought that he needed to do his best to get out of the room. He was hurting and humiliated, and both situations made him mean. Whatever Hermione had to do with this it wasn’t what he had expected, and he refused to let himself sit here and be smothered by her pity until he was forced to break what relationship they had managed to cobble together. He wouldn’t forgive himself. 

“This is why I never said anything,” Hermione muttered under her breath, and despite himself, Severus couldn’t help but probe. 

“Never said anything about what?”

She weakly waved a hand between them as if that explained everything. Severus wanted to shout at her that no relationship he’d ever had in his life was as simple as connecting a line between two people. He didn’t understand the intricacies of human interactions when they involved him. 

_As a spy, he had seen all, as a man, he was blind._

“At first I thought, what’s the harm? Maybe you would _want_ to know… then, I didn’t think I would get you to believe me.”

“Believe you?”

Hermione stood and walked to the other side of her office. She looked at the door but for a moment too long. Severus knew she wouldn’t bolt, but that she wanted to, badly.

Hermione kept her back to him, but he could see the defeat in her posture. “In the beginning, it wasn’t anything, I just wanted to make up for how we had left you on the battlefield, we assumed you had died, and then we forgot about you. It wasn’t kind, and it wasn’t fair. I owed you for that.”

“I don’t want your condescension,” he said. 

Not hers. Not anyone’s really, but certainly not hers. 

“I know,” she agreed softly, and there was silence. 

“It became… more, almost against my will, only almost. The more you pushed me away, the more I saw it as a bit of a challenge. Every time you cracked and revealed some other facet of who you are, I thought I had achieved something. Then it all changed. I don’t have a lot of experience with this sort of thing, so I wasn’t prepared to watch for the signs. I was in the middle of it before I realised and then I was… afraid. Somehow you would find out…”

Severus was conscious for the first time that he was being given something, a chance. He could leave the room now, and forget this had ever happened. He was sure he knew Hermione well enough now to comfortably assume she would _never_ raise this again without encouragement. She had only done so today because he had come into her rooms and insisted she explain herself without a thought to the consequences. 

Hermione had volunteered to do what was needed to keep him at the school. She had done it _knowing_ that he would, at the very least, assume the worst and then all of this might need to come into the open. She had done it anyway. 

Severus rose from his chair and stepped around where Hermione still stood, motionless in the middle of her office. He stopped when he was in front of her and felt a similar sense of pleasure when his shadow fell over her again, only this time he imagined it enveloping her, like a caress. _Maybe he had always thought of it like that but never allowed himself to dwell?_

Beautiful, brave thing that she was, she looked up to face him, and he searched her eyes for what felt like forever. 

_You’ve never been a coward_ , he reminded himself right before he kissed her. Severus kept his eyes firmly closed and his hands to his sides. He trusted himself with nothing more. His resolve was tested, _severely_ , when he felt Hermione respond, softly at first and then more eager as she pushed her hands against his chest and pulled herself up onto her tip-toes so she could chase his lips. 

“I’ve been hoping you would do that,” she said, self consciously when they broke away for air and Severus wasn’t sure if his ears had stopped working or whether he was only mishearing because of the roar of blood in his veins muffling her words.

“What?” he asked, as inelegantly as he had ever been.

“I thought I would have to,” she admitted with a half-smile that brought feeling back into his fingers. 

“Well, boldness does fall more readily to your lot, however… ambition has always been a driving factor of mine.”

“I’d never thought of you ambitious?”

Her hands hadn’t left his chest, and Severus felt emboldened to reach forward and finger one of her curls. He had wanted to do so for the longest time. He’d imagined them freshly washed and dried and smelling of her shampoo. He’d imagined them damp from perspiration from his persistent and welcome attentions, and he’d imagined seeing them in the corner of his eye as she strolled along before they would land against him and set him to rights.

“Not in the traditional sense,” he agreed. “Though I have always tried very hard to get the things I want, and I have always wanted things that were far from my reach.”

Hermione’s face was flush, and now that the realities of what had happened were settling in Severus was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He was aware he suddenly had nothing to say. They had discussed the letter, and now this had happened. He didn’t have the skills to navigate the what next. It was like being on a tightrope. Even his friendships, few that they had been, had never been easy and without risk. Severus had always been sure that one false step would ensure he lost them forever, and he had been right. 

“What now?” he asked, and he barely recognised his voice. 

They were alone. This might be the only time he would get to ask this, and if he didn’t, there was a fair chance the uncertainty would be the thing that finally drove him over the edge. 

“Why don’t we just see how it goes?”

“I don’t… I’m not a casual man, Hermione.”

He’d offered his devotion to three people in his life, all with a good deal less hope that he would be treated kindly, but he didn’t let go easily. Severus had held himself back from Hermione because he had worried what would happen if he permitted himself to love her, even like her. If she opened that door and he went through it, there would be no going back for him. 

“Who said anything about casual?” 

“You would tell your little friends?” He couldn’t help the sneer that crossed his face or the snarl in his voice. He would never want to spend time with Harry Potter willingly, but he wouldn’t be hidden from him. 

Hermione bit her bottom lip, but she wasn’t drawn into his discomfort. “I would,” she agreed without hesitation.

The two words were like a declaration, the biggest he had ever got from anyone. He wasn’t going to be relegated to the shadows again.

“You will be tarnished by association.”

She scoffed. “So will you… probably. I’m not without enemies.”

“So?”

Hermione pressed her hands a final time against his chest before she withdrew and took a step back. “Start small. A drink this evening? In my rooms?”

Severus nodded he was too overwhelmed to offer anything else, by his calculations he had around six hours until that ‘small start’ could begin and that was more than enough time to work himself into a frenzy.

“And you will consent to the invigilation?”

“I wasn’t aware I was being given a choice,” he drawled.

Hermione stilled, and Severus checked himself. Now was not the time. He reached out with mechanical, unpractised movements. He wasn’t even sure _what_ he should do, so he just did what he wanted. Gently, he ran his hand against her arm and then pulled back.

“I will consent to the… assessment. But I don’t promise to make it easy, for you or anyone else.”

He wanted to thank her for her interference; he knew he should and yet the words got stuck in his throat. He was too raw to offer anything else right then. 

“Okay.”

Hermione leant in to kiss him again, a much more chaste kiss this time, a promise of so much more, and then she released him with a breathy sigh. She seemed to know him well as without him having to say anything, she moved towards her desk so he could escape out of her office and give himself a chance of putting himself back together. 

“Oh, and Severus,” she said as he got to the door. 

“Yes?”

She eyed him with a hint of mischief he had often observed from her but had never had the pleasure of sharing in. 

“You get to tell Minerva.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, lovely readers. I hope you are all keeping safe in these weird times. The next one I have planned for this series is Earth as a Hermione x Remus pairing. The final one-shot will be called Fire. Let me know if you have any pairing suggestions, and given the element in consideration, I might even stretch myself into making a steamy(ish) one ;)


	3. EARTH

[Remus Lupin x Hermione Granger]

_The element of Earth is the sole purpose of all elements since it represents a basis for each of them, for our existence, and something we all want to accomplish – the materialisation of our desires._

/~/~/~/

_“Cover me when I run  
_ _Cover me through the fire  
_ _Something knocked me out' the trees  
_ _Now I'm on my knees”  
_ _Shock the Monkey, Peter Gabriel [1982]_

* * *

Hermione panted breathlessly as she curled her body around yet another sharp corner. The trees surrounding her blocked out the fading light and any hint of the best route to take. In her haste, she narrowly missed a gnarly tree root poking out from the forest floor. Hermione said a silent prayer of thanks that she had avoided it. Falling over at such a time could have meant death. Sometimes all the training she had counted for nothing; luck often impacted the day much more than experience. 

Hermione paused for a couple of seconds; it was all she could allow. It gave her a chance to catch her breath and to silence her protesting body, and see if she could hear the sound of feet approaching. It took only ten seconds. He was getting closer. As soon as Hermione caught the distant crunch of leaves being trodden into the ground, she took off again, sprinting into the growing darkness. 

The desire to get ahead soon outweighed her usual caution and her dress, white and older than she would like, caught in a branch. Hermione heard a telltale zipping chomp, and she knew another part of the tatty hem had been destroyed. She whipped around and saw the torn fabric scrap in a bush. It hadn’t been deliberate, but it wasn’t an adverse outcome. After all, this was no fairytale, it was much more _real_ than that, and when one didn’t have breadcrumbs to hand, you made do with whatever was at your disposal. The dress was one of the last decent things that she had to her name, but it would be worth ruining entirely for this. 

Small stones bit into the roughened flesh on the soles of her feet, but Hermione pressed on. They were so close.

After what felt like a lifetime, she made it into an open-ish clearing. The light was weak, but there was enough of a gap in the trees for it to work, just. Hermione stood still and willed her heartbeat to slow, the staccato pounding in her ears was stopping her from being able to think. She wished she could have a glass of water; her throat felt like it was on fire. She hoped there would be time for that later. 

Suddenly, Hermione thought she heard a noise, and she spun on her bare heel. The A-line skirt of her dress fanned out around her, like a princess mid-dance. The imagery was apt, or so she thought. 

Hermione brushed her feet against the cool ground, doing her best to dislodge some of the larger bits of the forest floor she had inadvertently picked up along the way. She looked up at the seemingly endless trees crowding her from every direction. There would be no escape. 

She had only just finished shaking out her left foot when she heard footsteps again. They were softer this time, but still, he was making no move to hide his approach.

“Hello, little girl.”

The hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck stood up as Scabior entered the clearing. Her pulse thrummed as he eyed her appreciatively and repositioned the kerchief around his neck with nimble fingers. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he all but purred, and Hermione suppressed a wretch. 

_Fancy indeed_. It appeared his sense of humour was intact after all this time. He had found her in the Forest of Dean, _again_. The last time she had seen Scabior here, he had pressed her against him and hauled her off to Malfoy Manor. The scar on her arm itched, and Hermione couldn’t help but push her other hand against it. The action was only momentary, but Scabior caught it. He grinned at her in the most feral of ways, exposing surprisingly perfect teeth. He seemed to remember the encounter if his leer was any indicator.

“Hermione Granger,” he greeted with a mocking bow. “How long has it been?”

Hermione assumed the question was rhetorical all part of the dance they did whether she played along or not. She chose to raise an eyebrow rather than reply.

He chuckled at her show of defiance and touched the tip of his wand against his chin. The Snatcher tapped it while twisting his mouth in a parody of deep thought. “I know,” he declared abruptly, as if it had just come to him. “The last time we were together was the battle of Hogwarts. Such a long time ago that seems. I saw you being dragged away by one of the Weasley boys, kicking and screaming. It seemed like you wanted to keep on fighting, was that it love? You never did know when to quit.”

Hermione couldn't remember seeing Scabior at Hogwarts. Her memory of that time had been broken and shadowed by events at the end. She chose not to remember as much as possible. Though now she thought of it, she did recall Neville telling her he had duelled with Scabior on the wooden bridge. The Snatcher was yet another of those that had initially been believed dead. It turned out those affiliated with Voldemort had been more cunning than they had given them credit for, and surprisingly tougher to kill. 

“Mmmm memories,” Scabior taunted, mocking her silence. “And now here you are, defenceless and barefoot in the woods. How did you know it was my birthday?”

Hermione had anticipated that it wouldn't take him long to notice her wand, or rather her lack of it. She wasn’t wearing a holster, and in the dress she had on there were little other places it could be hiding. She supposed she could pretend it was strapped to her thigh, but Scabior was too guileful for that. He had been the most successful Snatcher the Death Eater’s had for years for a reason. 

“Come here, Princess,” he beckoned with a wave of his arm that jostled the jangling golden chains he had around his slim wrist.

In direct contrast to her thin outfit, Scabior was clad in his usual ample layers. He had a faded black shirt that was unbuttoned far too low for decency and a thick coat in a deep red that laughed at the idea of _blending in_. Around his neck was the usual array of scarves and chains that Hermione used to think were amusingly odd affectations, the sort of things many wizarding folk would wear. She knew now that he _collected_ them, ripping them off the people he turned over before they met their fate. There was nothing funny in that. 

“Where are you taking me?” She asked, and her voice trembled. It wasn’t an act. Performance may not have been one of her strong suits but thankfully, whatever her situation, fear was never a hard thing for her to project. She was always afraid at some level.

Scabior eyed her apparent resignation with interest and Hermione shrugged. She may not have been the struggling, screaming girl she had been years before, but she wanted to know _where_ he intended to take her just as keenly even if she had no intention of going there with him. It certainly wasn’t Malfoy Manor. Nobody had used that house for years. 

Scabior smiled and pulled out the tie holding back his wavy auburn hair. He pushed the knot into his pocket and took a step towards her. “Nowhere yet, lovely. We’ve got time.”

Hermione looked around again with a slight sense of desperation. There was nothing else for it; they were too close to the middle of the clearing. Hermione walked back slowly, preparing to run, but she was hesitant to turn her back on an armed and very dangerous wizard. She was banking on him craving the thrill of the chase more than he wanted to cut her down where she stood. It was a gamble, or rather, a calculated risk. But then, so was everything these days. 

Scaboir’s eyes widened as she backed away and then he smirked. “Oh, darling, you really are the gift that keeps on giving.”

Hermione took off like a dart, and she dashed as fast as her war-ravaged body would allow. She reached the outer edge of the clearing before he was on her back. The Snatcher knocked her to the ground like a big cat taking down a deer, and she crumpled without a fight. As he laughed at his comfortable victory, Hermione forced her head up to see where they had landed. They were only just at the tree line, meaning she had barely moved ten metres. It was something of a blow to her ego. It also meant if she survived, she would need to start doing laps again to improve her strength. It was probably for the best that she stopped referring to exercise as a fate worse than death.

The excitement had obviously gotten to Scabior as he took his time pressing himself into her back before he roughly rolled Hermione over and secured one hand around her throat. Without delay, he dragged her to her feet and pushed her against the nearest tree. 

Hermione felt dizzy with all the harsh, fast movements she had been subjected to, but she did her best to shake her vision clear. For a moment she could see the canopy of leaves above them and then all that was there was his face. Gloating and lecherous. Scabior kept one hand on her throat, but he moved the other to grip a clump of her matted up curls. 

He wrenched her hair in his grasp until she reflectively angled her throat to relieve the pressure and Scabior sank down till his mouth was so close to her ear she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lobe.

“I’m going to make you enjoy this,” he purred with the sickest kind of promise.

“ _I think not_.”

Hermione shut her eyes when she heard the _achingly_ familiar clipped voice. It was as if now that rescue had arrived she could finally admit how terrified she had been. A second later, she contorted her neck as much as she was able to while still in the Snatcher’s clutches, and stared over Scabior’s shoulder as her attacker spun on his heel. 

Remus Lupin stood behind them, holding his wand aloft. His grip was relaxed but true. From his serene posture, you could have been forgiven for thinking he was back at Hogwarts, and just a teacher weighing up an appropriate punishment after catching two children _misbehaving_. But in his eyes, there was a determined fire that Hermione had seen more times than she could count. 

She was safe. 

“What?” Scabior exclaimed, looking between them dumbly. It was too late; bargaining and negotiation were not in their playbook. An unmistakable bright green light shot from Remus’ wand and the Snatcher was gone. 

The pressure on Hermione’s throat vanished in an instant and Remus jerked forward to ensure Scabior’s body dropped to the ground rather than on top of her. She was grateful. She’d already been under him once that morning, and that was more than enough. 

Scabior’s eyes were still open when she looked down. Hermione thought she could see a faint expression of surprise still staining his features, but she could have been projecting. 

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. After all this time, they still assumed the Order would ask questions first and hex later, but they were wrong. Their losses had hardened them. For such a long time death had seemed almost inevitable - it still did on occasion. After the battle of Hogwarts, they had all agreed to go down fighting, at the time it had been the only viable way forward. Now it was a matter of honour. 

Hermione stared down at the Snatcher’s crumpled body dispassionately. She wondered when she had stopped caring.

“Do we leave him here?” she inquired. The words came out raspier than she had expected, and she massaged her throat to ease the soreness temporarily. Remus gripped his wand tightly before he opened up his jacket and reached into her expandable bag that had been tied around his waist. Hermione took the bottle of water he offered and drank from it greedily until she felt her thirst and fatigue subside. 

Remus looked down at the corpse on the floor and shook his head. “Not at this time, we’re getting closer. We need to start introducing a bit of panic.”

Hermione tapped her fingers against the bottle, still held protectively in her grasp. The thought made her anxious. “Should we show our hand so soon?”

They had been fighting skirmishes for years, and she had grown used to what was expected to survive, that was war. But an out and out battle was another thing. The closer they got to the end, the more her anxiety rose. They didn’t have a good history with large scale conflict. 

Remus smiled at her encouragingly. “We won’t be giving them much, just enough to get a few of them ducking out of their hiding holes. There are still some organ grinders to work on until all we have left are monkeys.”

Hermione nodded, and though she was far from out of questions, she would save them for later. While they were out in the open, they were at risk. She trusted Remus to make the right call. He knew more about this than her and, though they weren’t big on hierarchy in what remained of the Order, he was near the top of the ranks now. Much as he might be reluctant to admit it. 

“Okay,” she agreed out loud, not that she needed to. Remus would have known from her expression how she felt, or maybe even from her smell, though he didn’t like it when she brought that up. 

“I will bow to your superior knowledge,” she said with a smile. “After all, once a teacher, always a teacher, isn’t that right?”

Remus flushed and eyed her warningly. Hermione stopped her teasing and stepped over Scabior to walk closer to her partner. 

Remus pulled her wand and holster from off his non-dominant arm and pressed it back around hers. His fingers were firm and calloused, and Hermione surrendered her limb entirely while he secured the leather in place with the brass buckles.

“I don’t like it when you’re not armed,” he admitted with a growl in his voice and Hermione laid her hand over his.

“I know, but it was _necessary_ with him. He might have only been a Snatcher, but he was a clever one. He would have known I was armed in a moment. You wouldn’t have had time to ambush us if Scabior had realised it was a trap before time.”

Remus did not look mollified though Hermione knew he agreed. 

“Well done, for getting to the tree line when you did,” he said lightly, and Hermione could hear the gratitude in his voice. Before he left, he had begged her to get it done as quickly as possible, and she had tried her best to do so. 

She nodded in response and Remus wrapped his arms around them. She heard him mutter something Hermione assumed he was dealing with the remains by making whatever _statement_ had been pre-agreed. Hermione dropped her head onto his warm chest, and a few moments later, without a word, he apparated them away. 

* * *

Remus reluctantly removed his arms from around Hermione and let himself relax. Back inside their warded boundary, they were as safe as they could be. He reached for her hand and walked towards the door of the smallholding they had put together. The main building itself was rather ramshackle, but it was a considerable step up from the abandoned barns and caves they had resorted to in their first year together. 

It had taken time and substantial effort, but they had made the inside as homely as possible. ‘If we are to die, let us do so in comfort’, had become their somewhat sentimental parody of house words and as dark as it may have been, it always made Remus laugh.

Before he stepped inside, Remus reached out to assess the wards to see if anything needed alteration or repair. It appeared, for now, it would be fine, but vigilance, as one of their fallen compatriots had been fond of saying, only paid dividends when it was constant. 

Remus went into the kitchen to get some more water for Hermione and broke another bottle from the plastic packet under the sink. Most of what they purchased was Muggle. It was not a hardship for him as he had often lived in Muggle towns over the years when scrounging for work or accommodation. 

Remus stepped in front of the sink to pull down an old saucepan and fill it with water. The stove was ancient but functional, and if he put the water on now, there was a chance they could have tea before they finally settled for bed. 

He looked out of the small window over the kitchen garden. He couldn't see much of it now, but he knew it was flourishing. Hermione had told him so. Remus had little interest or skill with plants unless they were of the dangerous kind, and he would have hardly understood what was good to look at, but Hermione had taken an interest. With a few scant letters from Neville and an old book, she had been able to grow enough to keep the two of them going, mostly. It kept them from having to go to the shops very often, which was a blessing. They could never go anywhere too near. It would have been silly to risk it now they had opted for a more permanent residence, which meant apparition, sometimes chain. It was a lot of effort to expend for groceries, however necessary they were.

The muddy garden was quiet and peaceful, with his advanced hearing, Remus could pick up insects milling to and fro. Sometimes they sat out there for a while, taking in the silence and sharing a drink though it had been a good while since they’d had any alcohol to speak of. Outside the secure wards, the war raged on, bloody and unyielding, but inside they could forget, just for a moment and enjoy some home comforts. 

Remus passed Hermione the bottle he had collected and took the few short steps to the bedroom. There were only three rooms in total (Hermione insisted the bathroom was too small to be counted), a living room, a kitchen and a small bedroom. But it was big enough. Apart from Hogwarts, Remus thought it might have been the most idyllic place he had ever stayed. It was undoubtedly one of the most welcoming. Though his former school might have been a castle, it was the friends he had made there that made it _home_. Such was the same with this tiny dwelling, the witch living inside it, with him, made him feel like he belonged. 

Remus sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his worn boots and watched Hermione as she walked over to the far wall and removed the large, chipboard panel they had placed there. Hermione had seen it on the back of an overflowing Muggle skip during one of their escapades and had insisted they bring it home. Remus had been weary and uncooperative at the time, but now, he saw what she was getting at. 

Hermione placed the chipboard on the floor, lowering it with her wand. Behind the rickety bit of wood that had been hit with more cleaning and expanding spells than either of them could count was their intelligence—every scrap of news, and their instructions and overall objectives that were too detailed to be immediately burnt. If they were ever found, it wouldn’t take the Death Eaters long to discover all this, but there was as much misinformation as correct up there. Hermione had decided to painstakingly craft notes and letters and things that would fit in amongst the rest. The hope was that it would keep them guessing for some time, enough that the others would grow suspicious when they didn’t hear from Remus and get to safety. It wouldn't exactly send him to his grave with a smile, but it was sufficient for Remus to assume that if it came to it, he would be giving one last defiant finger to the forces that had blighted almost his entire life. 

Hermione muttered a spell, and with a ruffle of parchment, fifteen images appeared in front of all of the other notes and pictures. Close up shots of their ‘targets’. Hermione bounced her wand against her hand before slashing it upwards with a determination that had grown in her as she had hardened. A deep red laceration appeared across Scabior’s smirking face.

_Another one bites the dust._

The pictures had been of the wizarding variety once upon a time, but Hermione had asked him to freeze them long ago. It was unsettling even for him, to be looked down at by people they were drafted to kill. 

Twelve. They had taken down twelve. It left them three.

Hermione stared up at the board as the red line she had conjured began to bleed out and crimson spread across Scabior’s cheeks. Eventually, the entire image would be tinged with red. It was a slow process and all in all, Remus would much rather use a marker pen, but it was something Hermione did because she needed to, some small act of ceremony that reminded her each and every time that she had taken a life. They had both taken lives, many of them by now. 

The first six had fallen in as many weeks. It hadn’t taken long. Each ‘team’ had been given several different priority targets. After some thoughtful debate, himself and Hermione had opted to take out the lower-ranking ones first. They had reasoned that they would be the _easiest_ to eliminate and that they would be missed the least. Both ended up being true. The other teams had followed their lead, and within two months they had taken out over a hundred of the Death Eater’s bottom rung.

It might not have seemed like much of an achievement but, as Hermione had reasoned, people, _ordinary people_ , were less likely to throw themselves towards a cause when the newly anointed members were widely regarded as cannon fodder. It did little to take out the heart or brain of their movement, but the widespread massacre they affected over those weeks had hindered the Death Eater’s recruitment objectives to that very day. 

The Order wasn’t playing anymore.

“Hermione,” he called to her as he took off his socks. Remus stretched his toes and rolled his shoulders to stretch out his muscles. He’d been carrying too much tension for hours. He would be sore tomorrow. He was always hurting now, one way or another. 

Hermione waved away the board and secured it before coming over to him. There was another reason to fit it back up every time they were finished. The secrecy it afforded was a perk, but Hermione had brought the board back when she saw it so she wouldn't have to look at the wall all the time. When the intelligence was covered, they could pretend that it was a typical undecorated wall and try to sleep without the eyes of their enemy looking down on them expectantly. 

Hermione turned and eyed him curiously, and Remus met her gaze, not saying anything but letting her see what he felt, what he _wanted_ from his expression. After missions, it felt good, _right_ , to be unguarded with her, to take off the mask so to speak. It helped him to feel human again. She helped him to remember why he still _wanted_ to feel anything.

Hermione nudged forward to stand between his legs, and her bare calves rubbed against his jean-clad ones. Remus ran his hands down her legs and pulled his wand out to mutter a few spells at her feet, healing the cuts caused by the forest floor. If he hated his monthly form less, he might have said that some of the healing spells that had become necessary for him over the years had been useful. As it was, Remus never commented on why he knew them, and Hermione never asked. 

She shifted her feet against the worn carpet and muttered a quiet thank you as the first spell took. Her soft words were warmed by the overflowing affection she never hid, and Remus drank it in. 

“Take off your dress,” he implored with feeling and then pulled off his cable knit jumper as further encouragement. He’d never bothered with coats - they prevented any ease of movement which could be disastrous on a mission, and he ran hotter than most.

Remus watched Hermione track the progress of his jumper as he pulled it off the top of his head and threw it to the floor. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He raised his chin to observe her now he had laid out his opening hand. Remus knew she would be appeased. She liked equality in all things, that girl of his.

Hermione ogled him sheepishly from under a curtain of messy curls, and her teeth sank into her bottom lip. That she could still be nervous, even now, amused him. In the beginning, his forwardness had been a shock to her. Hermione had only known him as her mild-mannered, perpetually stressed, former professor, not the _man_ he was under the shabby teaching robes. Those hesitations had faded as she had come to know him, as they had come to know each other. But still, she worried. A scar here, a blemish there, she had catalogued all of hers. War had changed them, from the inside out, but Remus couldn’t have cared less. _Who was he to judge someone's beauty by the state of their skin?_ He couldn’t even claim ownership of his body for the whole month, beaten up and weathered as it might have been. 

After a moment’s indecision she did little to hide, Hermione’s bravery won out over her concerns, and she grasped at the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head in one clean motion. The white fabric arched in the air and joined his jumper on the floor. 

Both cloth soldiers were eager to fall for the advancement of a very different kind of campaign. 

It left her standing in front of him, clad in just a thin pair of cotton knickers. It wasn’t the kind of underwear you bought to impress a partner. Remus was _keenly aware_ that Hermione had never had the luxury of time for such a thing in her short life. The soft textile had once been a sort of nude colour that was supposed to compliment all skin tones as if such a thing existed. They had always been too light against Hermione. Remus wondered if she had ever noticed? It was likely she had never looked at herself quite as carefully as he had. 

The knickers had been washed one too many times, like all of their clothes. It didn’t put him off. _How could it?_ Remus had become as familiar with each piece over the years, the mundane and the enticing. Most emotions he felt about them were not about the clothes at all but the mood of the woman wearing it and of the man observing it. Everything was enticing given the right circumstances at the right time.

Hermione shuffled, transferring her weight from foot to foot as he studied her. When Remus glanced towards her shoulders, she reached up, and unprompted pulled her hair to one side. Moony thrashed against his ribs, seeing _his_ mark upon her skin. It made Remus feel warm as well, though it did not affect him in the same way. 

Remus didn’t much like to look at the mark itself. He’d only done that a year or so before and he still felt a degree of guilt whenever he caught sight of it. Hermione had been asking him about it for a year before he finally gave in and though it was one of the most intense experiences of his life, it came at a cost. _Marking_ Hermione couldn’t be dressed up like some romantic ideal, not for him. In order to seal the bond between them, he’d had to _rip_ her flesh. She might not have felt it clearly at the time, but Remus had. He’d felt Hermione’s skin give way and her blood fall down his chin. It might not have been so bad if he’d been repulsed by it. But he hadn’t been. Remus had _enjoyed_ it. The act allowed him to indulge a part of his nature that he had always tried to control before. It was freedom and doom all rolled into one unforgettable bite.

Yet there was the warm feeling whenever he thought of it—not caused by the mark itself but what it represented. Permanency, and an acceptance of his nature that Remus hadn’t expected to find in his life. It was more than he had hoped for, but maybe, after all this time, it was deserved? 

“Beautiful,” he breathed out like a solemn prayer and then he reached up to brush the back of his fingers against Hermione’s cheek when she flushed at his reverentially delivered compliment. 

“Turn?” he urged, and Hermione did. As she moved, she stretched her hand out behind so their fingers could link while he regarded her back.

There were bruises on her shoulders from where the Snatcher had thrown her against the tree. That they were already forming spoke of the force that had been used and part of him, a dark and corrupt part, wished that he had kept Scabior alive, to make him suffer. But then, he would be as bad as them. _Wouldn’t he?_

Hermione shuddered as Remus traced the outline of the patch of darkening skin. He chastised himself, and Moony barked that he should have acted quicker, but deep down, Remus knew that wasn't true. He had been watching, waiting for them to get somewhere that would work for him to appear unseen. They’d _needed_ to ensure Scabior was on his own and that he was surprised enough not to send word before they took him down. 

It wasn’t a ruse that Remus enjoyed using, the unsuspecting girl as bait, and as such, they had only employed it once before. It had been ten months after they had been paired up and they had been doing their best to track the new head of magical law enforcement. Back then, Remus’ physical relationship with Hermione had been quite fresh, and Moony was not calm enough to allow him to keep his distance. Being away from Hermione, and forced to watch as she was pawed at and degraded had driven Remus to the edge of his control. He had attacked before the planned time and then there had been a scramble to make the best of it. The mission had been a success in the end, but only because of Hermione’s fast actions. 

Remus hoped she wouldn’t suggest it again, though, he suspected its prospective usefulness had run its course. It wouldn’t have been a very effective lure for anyone they had left.

Remus dropped his hand from Hermione’s shoulder and then flexed it against his knee. _Patience_ , he commanded himself, though _he didn’t need the reminder_. Delayed gratification had been the by-line for his entire existence. Well, the lag had always been guaranteed, the pleasure, not so much. 

“Back around,” he appealed, and Hermione twisted, not letting go of his hand. Remus marvelled that her hands were still so soft, despite all of the hardship she had faced. He liked to hold them often. They reminded him that she was delicate, human and oh so real. 

Hermione smiled at him self consciously now they could see each other again, and Remus returned her expression. He fingered one of her dry curls and then pushed it behind her ear so he could see the freckles that danced across her nose. He had all but counted them while she slept. He knew her face so well.

Hermione had been uncomfortable with this at first, his _attentions_ after every mission. He’d tried to help it, but he couldn’t, not really. Remus couldn’t be pacified until he knew the extent of her injuries and had reassured himself that she was okay. _Was it the wolf that drove him in that? Or the man?_ He didn’t know anymore. Now that his life was no longer dictated by trying to blend in, it didn’t seem to matter as much. Her safety was all he cared about.

He’d almost lost her once. Three years ago. 

Though they had been together almost a year by then, both would have considered their partnership to be new, both in a professional ( _if their missions could be called that_ ) and a romantic sense. Most would have believed that to be _more than enough_ time to trust completely, and perhaps it _should_ have been. But they weren’t competing with former lovers, or affairs of the heart, on some imagined timeline, but with friends who had become family over years of shared experience and ample trauma. 

To two souls that had repeatedly bound themselves to others through life in the face of danger, it should have come as no surprise that things crystalised for them through pain and the threat of loss. 

Hermione had misstepped getting out of the way of a cutting curse, and it had torn across her back. The blood loss had been extreme. She’d been unconscious for nearly a week. Recovery had been slow, hers and his. Hermione had found it hard to move her arms for a few months, as any slight shift affected the delicate skin of her back. Remus found it hard to let her leave the room without following and watching, silently waiting until he could be called in to help.

Once Hermione had gotten well enough to dress, she had been devastated to learn that the top she had been wearing was utterly unsalvageable. She’d told Remus that it had been one of Harry’s and he’d understood. He still had far too many of Sirius’ old band t-shirts lurking around to be flippant about such things. 

With Hermione facing towards him, Remus couldn't see the old scar on her back that she had got that day. But he knew it was there all the same. His feelings about it had changed over time as they did for every new mark she earned along the way.

At first, they would make him feel anger and guilt, then sorrow and then, as if by some kind of magic, as they faded and became part of her, Remus began to love them after a fashion.

He stared up at Hermione, still standing in front of him for ‘inspection’. Remus squeezed her hand, thanking her for her indulgence of an old wolf and tipped his head to the side to catalogue her front.

She had fingers marks that had been left against her throat. Angry pink lines that whispered what Scabior would have done if given half the chance. Remus felt the wolf snarl and gnash, but he ignored it. 

He wanted to be soft and gentle, reassuring and kind. It wasn’t always possible. Others had blamed his fits of aggression on the wolf over the years, but that wasn’t a completely accurate character study as far as Remus was concerned. He’d always had a bit of a temper - even when the moon's pull was at its weakest. He’d just always been around people who had moods that overshadowed his and made him look wholly balanced in comparison.

Their kind of war was a strange one. It was moments of adrenaline followed by weeks of quiet preparation. Emotions ran high and low, and by now, he imagined Hermione was used to his peaks and troughs. He had certainly grown accustomed to hers. 

Remus ran a hand over her shoulder and felt for the mark _he_ had left against her skin. It calmed Moony and reassured him, even as he had to tell himself that he was different from the man that had squeezed her neck earlier that day. Hermione whimpered, and the noise stole the breath from his chest. His touch _there_ would likely always have that effect on her. She would always have a devastating effect on him. Even though the mark she had left on him wasn’t visible, it was just as irremovable. 

Hermione’s eyes snapped open as his hand moved away, and Remus was arrested by her warm, brown, all-knowing gaze. She looked fixedly back. She still looked so young and full of promise. On his maudlin days, Remus told her she had been a fool to saddle herself with him when she was still so pure and lovely. Hermione would laugh, and invariably tell him that he saw what he wanted to see. 

On a quiet afternoon, one when they had been waiting for news of another team's mission, Hermione had told him the story of the _Velveteen Rabbit_. It was a book Hermione had as a child, and the title rang a few bells but as she explained it Remus was stunned to realise he remembered it as well, his mother must have had a copy when he was a child. 

Remus had held her on his lap for an age afterwards, long after the news had come and been celebrated in the limited way they were able. When he had thought Hermione was _very nearly_ asleep, he had leant down and braved asking what she saw ‘now that more of his _fur_ had rubbed off’. ‘Your power’ she had replied without missing a beat and ‘your heart’. Remus had stared into the unseeing darkness for hours that night. 

Yet, whatever they saw through their apparently rose-tinted glasses, they _were_ older. Somehow five years had gone by since the battle of Hogwarts. _How had it been so long ago?_ It both felt like yesterday and if it was so far removed that it had actually happened in some alternate time. Everything was different now. The world was an uglier place, and the light had been fading. It would have been snuffed out entirely, but for them. 

On that day, where so much expectation had been unfairly placed on a young boy's shoulders, the war had deviated from the plan they had all been sold. _Good didn’t triumph over evil_. Harry had fallen. When Remus thought about it now, he could have beaten his head against a wall for not expecting it. _Who lets a child stand against a whole army? Who does that and is still confident they will win?_

It hadn’t been the only surprise. Voldermort had perished too after the trio had eliminated what remained of his soul. After dealing the final blow to Harry, _he-who-shall-not-be-named_ had been killed by a wave of rebounding magic when Harry’s body fell lifelessly to the ground. It had made no more sense than anything else had that day, and Remus had given up trying to analyse it. Only regret and guilt remained. 

Remus hoped that wherever Harry was he was with James and Lily now, and Sirius too. He prayed they didn’t judge him too harshly for all of his failings, for not protecting Harry like he was supposed to. For taking Hermione and keeping her, for not planning on giving her up. 

“What are you thinking about,” Hermione asked. It was clear she had almost forgotten about her state of undress. She reached to press her fingers between his eyes, smoothing out a frown he hadn’t realised was there.

“You,” he replied, “you, the war, Harry, everything.”

Hermione lifted his chin with the gentlest of touches and Remus leant into her hand, ready to play supplicant at her feet if she so desired. “Stay here, stay here with me,” she requested softly, and Remus nodded. Hermione pressed a tender kiss against his lips, and his hands found her arm, holding her in place so he could deepen the connection. 

His touch met a rough patch of skin, and he knew the scar without opening his eyes. Rookwood had shot at Hermione once his master had fallen, and chaos had reigned on the Hogwarts grounds. 

As it turned out, the Death Eaters that remained were none too keen on allowing themselves to be rounded up and sent to prison, trial or no trial. Without having to appease an increasingly psychotic dictator, they were better organised. They had a hierarchy and a chain of command; they had infiltrated the Ministry and had the press in their pocket. _Why would they give up when they had all but won?_

It hadn’t taken long for the last of the Order faithful to realise they would not win that day. It wasn’t safe to stay there as they were all so well known. Their troops got out in whatever groupings they could and reconvened a week later. It was to be the last time they would all be together. Twenty of them remained. It wasn’t enough, not then in any case. 

There was no _safety in numbers_ for them. 

After a lengthy, frantic, emotional and often desperate debate between people who had their lives destroyed, they split up into teams of two. They would be less conspicuous like that and could spread their limited resources wider. 

Remus had been numb the whole time they had been making the decisions. He hadn’t bothered taking part; he hadn’t expected to outlive the week. Then Minerva had done the unthinkable. She hadn’t resolved to send him off to the werewolf packs. She gave him a partner and a target list and a warm hand on his shoulder. 

Hermione - who had been stunned by Charlie Weasley and apparated away from Hogwarts after she refused to leave Harry’s body behind - had been paired with Ron at first, and it had lasted two weeks. They had been too broken to help rebuild themselves or each other, and lost in their grief they had ripped each other down instead. They hadn't been able to stop until there was nothing to hold onto anymore. Hermione had referred to it later as being the end of her childhood. Harry’s death and the realisation that Ron couldn’t fix her. Or, more sadly, that his love wasn’t enough to inspire her to fix herself.

The girl who first arrived when Remus was switched over was nothing like the girl he had known as a student. Hermione was subdued but determined, shattered, but steady. They survived by degrees for months and then, slowly, things started to get better. 

Their assignments had primarily remained the same throughout that time. Occasionally they picked up additional work when they lost some of their own, but their people had been careful. Against all the odds, it was starting to look like they were winning. 

Hermione pushed a hand into his hair and carded her fingers through his limp waves. Every so often, she half clenched her fist, and the slight pull tore a groan from his throat. Each, and every time. _Always_. 

He’d known as soon as she’d turned to look at him when they had first been put together; she was so eager to please, so radiant and lovely. Remus had known he wouldn’t be able to help himself. He hadn’t been able to stop loving her. It would have been as pointless and arrogant as trying to stop the tide.

Remus stood up, and he gripped Hermione around the waist so she wouldn’t topple backwards as he invaded her space. He trailed his fingers over her neck, where bruising was sure to emerge tomorrow.

“I don’t like it when people touch you,” he confessed, and his gravelly, sincere voice carried in the quiet of their room. 

“I know. It was-”

“I know,” he replied, mimicking her words. They shared a smile, and Remus pressed a kiss into the top of her head. He already knew everything she would try to say to defend their action. There was no need to hash it all out again. Not while she was in pain. Unlike Hermione, Remus wasn’t a believer in ‘I told you so’. With a life like theirs, it seemed pointless to keep any kind of score. 

“Clever girl. It was a good plan.”

Remus saw her preen under his praise, and he kissed her forehead. Even when all the world around them was hell, Hermione still liked to get ‘top marks’. He felt his heart warm to know that she was still _her_ , despite what else might have changed. 

She was _so like_ him in so many ways—a much better fit than any that had gone before. If he _believed_ in things like that, Remus might have said that he saw fate’s hand in how they had been thrown together. He certainly wouldn’t have survived this mentally with anyone else. He’d had relationships before, of course, he’d nearly been married once. But nothing had ever been like this. 

Had it been him and Nymphadora, Remus believed they would have had a similar fate to Hermione and Ron. They would have torn at each other, desperate for the validation of each other's affection when all they really wanted… was to be free. 

Tonks had a temper, and it was quick to ignite and ran permanently hot. She had run off with Charlie Weasley a week before they were due to get married and Remus hadn’t blamed her. The looming dread of the war and the pressure from the Order had made marriage seem like the _perfect_ idea, but disaster was inevitable. Remus was glad she had done it and had told her so when he’d had the chance. He wasn’t sure he would have ever been brave enough.

There had been talk of a baby once, but it had never come to be. At least, not for him. Tonks had had a little girl six months ago. It was a terrible time to have a child, and yet, it had brought everyone so much joy, so much to aspire to. It was the promise that their world would be brighter again. 

Remus ran a hand over Hermione’s flat stomach and kissed her below her belly button. _One day_ , he told himself, _maybe_. He had denied himself for so long and lived on the peripheries of great happiness for almost his whole life. There was something almost divine in giving into your desires after such a long period of abstention. If they survived this, he would have cheated death more times than he could count. Remus felt he owed it to the memories of those that had fallen, and to the witch in front of him, to be content.

Remus looked in the direction of the board. He didn’t need to see it. He had spent so much time studying the bloody thing; he could picture it every time he closed his eyes. “Not many left,” he observed dispassionately.

“I know.”

“It will all be over soon.”

He ran the back of his hand over her cheek and down her throat, gently in case he pressed too hard against her injuries. Remus abruptly ended his trail when he reached her breast, he massaged her there, while staring into her eyes until she rose onto the balls of her feet, arching into his touch.

“What about... ?” she asked, looking at him beseechingly. His hand tightened against her. 

Remus ran his tongue over her bite. “One day, the war will be over. But _this_ ,” he said as he swiped harder for emphasis. “ _This_ doesn’t go away,” he continued, almost regretfully. 

He felt more than saw Hermione sag with relief, and if he hadn’t been in control of himself, he might have let a tear fall.

There had been more conversations like this as of late. For so long _the end_ hadn’t been something they could even dream of, let alone rationally contemplate. They had never thought of their relationship in terms of the real world. Whatever that would be. 

They reassured each other in their own ways, whenever they could, that when the chaos ended, and the ashes settled they’d still be there for each other, to the exclusion of all others.

Remus leant down to nip at Hermione’s ear, increasing the pressure in his hand still against her breast and listening to her soft pants. 

If they got through this and for some reason he _couldn’t_ have her, he’d burn the world again until it smelted into a land that _would_ work for them. There was only so much sacrifice a man could be expected to give. 

“Remus,” Hermione whined in a near begging tone, and he dragged himself away from the memories and darkness to focus solely on her. With a sweep of magic, he vanished her knickers, and his fingers quickly traced the newly revealed skin, feeling the sticky evidence of _her_ patience against his eager fingers. 

“Please,” she keened, pressing into his touch and Remus’ head felt forward to land on her shoulder. 

“Fuck,” he muttered against her skin as he basked in her desire. He took a moment to breathe her in deeply through his nose until Moony’s excitement made him grit his own teeth to hold himself back.

“Up on the bed, Hermione,” he commanded, as softly as he could manage. “On your knees,” he managed after seeing her questioning expression. She liked to have things explained as clearly as possible. She wanted to get things right, and he wanted to make her happy.

“Perfect,” he said after she had scrambled to obey and positioned herself as he had requested. 

Remus ran a hand over his face to calm down, and he looked back over at the board, seeing it in his mind. Greyback was next.

He turned away from the responsibility that lay ahead, both figuratively and literally and instead looked down at Hermione who was stretched out on the bed, willing and waiting for him. Remus would worry about Greyback tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It is probably already very apparent that I got carried away with this one. I haven’t written this pairing before, and once I started on Remus’ POV I couldn’t stop! Thank you to everyone who suggested a pairing for Fire, due to many votes and my own personal preference I will be doing Sirius x Hermione. The tone of that one-shot will be very different to this, as once the characters were all together in my mind, it couldn't help but play out like a kind of farce. Thank you for reading all, stay safe x


	4. FIRE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For anyone that may have recently read my latest Misfits one-shot, Slow Hand, Fire is the story I was working on at the same time. This one is a sort of opposite version to that fic, where Sirius is the one pining in the beginning. I hope you enjoy it. 

[Sirius Black x Hermione Granger]

When speaking about the element of fire, we have to keep in mind that this is the only element that shines. Water can sparkle, that’s true, but only if it reflects the light created by fire.

/~/~/~/

 _“In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”  
_ _Albert Schweitzer_

* * *

When Hermione entered the Burrow, Sirius was watching. He felt like that was all he did nowadays. He couldn’t help himself. He was _immediately_ aware of her presence wherever they were. A while ago, he had found it infuriating, and he had tried his best to push the growing _infatuation_ to the back of his mind. Or, fuck his way through it, as Remus would have said. Whatever Sirius called it, it hadn’t worked. 

He brought home women, many of them, all of the beautiful and charming in their own ways. But none of them smiled the way Hermione did, in that understated way she had that felt like a challenge. Sirius couldn’t imagine any of them nicking their friend’s socks and tucking herself up in the library to read until she fell asleep. 

Hermione was greeted by all present and then artfully squeezed in at the top end of the table between Luna and Ginny. No doubt Molly Weasley thought the girls were ‘safest’ up there. Away from the _bawdy talk_ the men engaged in. Sirius tried not to roll his eyes, but not very hard. His patience for the Weasley matriarch had always been minimal at best. Molly was _forever_ sticking herself between Sirius and something he cared about, and he no more mind to obey her commands now than he’d had when she’d tried to dictate Harry’s life all those years ago.

Hermione and her friends were women grown, and yet Molly still treated them like children. Hermione in particular, but then, Sirius suspected Molly had her eyes on Hermione for a member of her family, as soon as she could pin down one of her sons to try. As such, she was keen to keep Hermione in reach.

Sirius ate a few more mouthfuls of whatever was on his plate and made a half-hearted attempt to follow the conversation around him.

Hermione’s curls were pulled off her face, and she was wearing an old jumper even Remus might have said was fit for the bin. It was in a colour that sat somewhere between red and purple that probably didn’t have a name as no one else had ever considered using it for clothes before. It managed to both look too dark and too bright for her features. 

Yet, he’d never thought a woman had looked lovelier. 

He was beginning to lose what was left of his faculties. 

Bill was saying something about the bank, on the verge of an argument with Percy. He was punctuating every sentence with a wave of the butter knife as his already flushed brother got redder and redder. Sirius tried to pay attention, but his mind was elsewhere. 

_She_ didn’t seem to have the same problem.

Hermione’s eyes darted around the people sitting near her as she listened to stories, interjected and laughed to her heart’s content. He envied her relaxed enjoyment of the day, but he envied the people sitting near her more. Sometimes Sirius couldn’t entirely swallow how different she was now, all these years after the war. It was like she had finally got comfortable in her skin. She knew who she was, and she didn’t apologise for it. Hermione could be the warmest person in the room if she liked you and aloof as all get out if she didn’t. Her mood could turn on a sickle, and she was the bravest person he knew. 

Sirius reached for his drink and swirled his glass around while contemplating. It was best to look away now and again, at least while he was still sober enough to force himself into compliance. He didn’t want any of the older matrons around the table to detect his interest and attempt to castrate him. 

The threat of their disgust with him should have been enough to make him take a step back. But Sirius had never been good at controlling impulses, especially when they felt this good. 

As Sirius tried to focus on _anything_ else, even if the only thing going at his end of the table was the Weasleys tussling, Hermione’s soft laugh drifted down to him, and he set his glass down with a thunk. It was no use. He was going to have to say something.

At first, he had thought it was a bit of a crush, something he would move passed and maybe even be able to laugh about in time, but now he knew that wasn’t the half of it. _Crushes_ didn’t crawl under your skin or etch themselves against your heart. You didn’t hang on every world your crush had to say, or feel so heartened when they remembered something utterly pointless about you. Crushes didn’t make you feel like you had the chance to wipe the slate clean, begin again and be better.

Hermione made him feel like he had before, when he was still young and not so jaded. Before it all went to shit. Sirius felt… hopeful. Like there was a chance for him to have a piece of what everyone else seemed to find so easily. Hermione reignited something deep within him that made him want to put the pieces of himself back together. Or at least attempt it. He wasn’t expecting miracles, not at his age, and not with his weary view of the world.

Sirius reached forward to refill his glass and felt his jaw tense when he heard Molly tsk. Arthur did his best to shush his wife, but the woman was unrepentant. Sirius sat back in his chair and raised his glass to Molly, with a smile on his face and Ron tried to smoother a laugh with a cough.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of listening to Charlie’s _latest_ Dragon story, Hermione looked over at him. Sirius felt like extra light had fallen on his cramped corner of the Weasley’s kitchen. Immediately, he wanted to end himself for having such a ridiculously sappy thought. He saluted her with a grin, and she smiled and gave him a little wave in return. It would have been utterly innocuous if it weren’t for the rampant blush that stole across her cheeks. 

There had been more of those of late, little signs that whispered she was interested… at least in some capacity. They should have been enough to propel him into action, but Sirius had never been good at dealing in subtleties. In a world of murmurs, he was a man used to those that shouted. 

He rubbed a hand over his jaw and glanced over his shoulder at her. Hermione was talking with Ginny, but there was a stiffness in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Sirius knew she wasn’t unaffected. _So why didn’t she say anything?_

There had been lingering touches when they had shared washing up duty, a penetrating glance across the library and so many other simple joys that were just enough to make Sirus believe he could go half-mad. 

Chairs screeching on the kitchen floor woke him out of his meditative state and Sirius got to his feet to follow the boys out of the back door. He walked past Hermione’s chair as he chatted to Remus and couldn’t stop himself from putting a hand on her shoulder. Her perfect skin erupted into goosebumps that climbed up her neck. The sight would probably be enough to ensure he got a good nights sleep. 

Sirius took one last look before he walked into the garden and started planning in his mind.

He loved her. He wanted her. He didn’t deserve her, but he wasn’t sure that was enough to hold himself back anymore.

* * *

In many ways, Sirius Black’s life had never been anything even approaching normal. The traumatic oddity of his childhood years could have produced enough material for several books, had he ever been so inclined to dive back into the dirt of his memory, and yet, as he got older, his life got weirder still. 

He’d been a falsely accused man, a fighter in two wars, a disinherited heir, and a scion once more, and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, _dead for five years_. His return from the veil was still unexplained, making him something of a magical marvel as well as a living legend. The problem, Sirius found, with being a legend, was that no one knew what to do with them when they were as real as the nose on your face. People approached him as you would a piece of abstract art you had read loads about and had formed very concrete opinions on, but still didn’t understand.

In any case, life was a cruel bitch, and it had taught him to prepare for the unexpected and enjoy the ridiculous which was what he planned to do at the latest wedding he had been invited to. 

When Sirius had left school, the impetus of his classmates had been to run off and get married. They had been faced with an uncertain future, shadowed by war and they had thought that pairing off and declaring they would be happy regardless was the best way to stick a finger up at the notion they all had targets on their back.

Things were different for the generation that had ended the war, and Sirius was pleased to see they had bided their time. However, that period of contemplation had left for a few _unusual_ matches. 

The invite to the wedding of Draco Malfoy and Luna Lovegood had hardly been a surprise, after all, it was all any of their peer group had talked about for months. There was some overblown romantic tale doing the rounds of how Draco had proposed at dusk in some _dream location,_ but Sirius had done his best to blur out most of the details. He had a strong suspicion he wouldn’t be impressed.

Yet, he was invited, and he was enough of a Pureblood to know what was expected of him, and even though he regularly flouted those expectations, he had no wish to in this case.

-/-/-/-

Sirius picked up the side of the teapot he was proffered and waited for the inevitable pull that would mean the portkey had activated. 

The location of the wedding had been swathed in secrecy, and even now the guests had no idea _exactly_ where they were going. The Prophet had spoken to several members of the wedding party, offering them exuberant funds to get pictures and Narcissa was going above and beyond (issuing threats and who knew what else) to ensure that wouldn’t happen.

Sirius landed with a thunk, and he stepped away from the landing zone and put his hands in his pocket as he took in his surroundings. There wasn’t much in the way of _distinguishing marks_ to go by. They were in a woodland clearing that was dotted with fairy lights and reams of gauzy chiffon, like something out of a story. Lamps beamed along pathways and people were there to greet them with drinks and point them in the direction of the ceremony and refreshment stations. Huge tents had been set up all around, each one lined with luxurious silks and plush carpets covering the grass for the floor.

Sirius accepted the glass he was offered and idly followed Remus to where some of their group were standing, in an area where rustic barrels were being used as tables. 

Ginny was excitedly pointing out every detail to Oliver Wood, who was nodding along diligently. Ron was getting a similar ear-bending from Lavender, but he was doing a poorer job of looking interested, the poor lad. Sirius stood slightly away from the rest and kept half an eye on the arrival section of the field. 

He didn’t have to wait long. 

Hermione arrived with a stumble that she managed to control at the last minute, righting herself before she completely toppled over. Sirius saw her mumble what he imagined was a curse and he wetted his lips. 

Once she was standing, she turned and smiled off to the side. It was an expression that made Sirius forget where they were. Her dress was silver, made up of individual sparkles and as she moved across the grass light refracted off her and left pools of rainbows in her wake. The appearing and disappearing spectrums sparkled across her bare arms and over her toes and made Sirius’ throat feel dry. 

It was an utterly _un-Hermione_ thing to wear, and yet it was perfect for the occasion and the venue.

Sirius was so caught up in watching Hermione he didn’t notice anyone around her, not until Remus muffled a curse next to him and Tonks coughed into her drink. Sirius took a step closer to them as Remus rubbed a hand over his jaw. 

“Look again, mate,” he said with resignation, and Sirius’ gaze snapped to Hermione. 

She wasn’t alone. 

Given the way the man she was with was wrapping a proprietary hand around her waist - with his fingers biting into the silver fabric Sirius had been admiring so much - he was her _date_.

Sirius clutched his glass so tightly there was a good chance it would break. It was worth the risk. It was that or grind his back teeth to powder. 

“Easy Padfoot,” Remus muttered, and Sirius exhaled heavily out of his nose before chucking back the rest of his drink. 

So she had a date? _Big deal_. There was no need to cause a scene. 

At least until _after_ the ceremony.

* * *

Hermione walked out the elaborate tea tent holding the cup she had picked up for Minerva, as she was _insisting_ Hermione call her. It wasn’t as if Hermione hadn’t _tried_ to be more casual with her former professors. It just went against type for her in a way she was struggling to break. Even as an adult, Hermione wanted authority figures (the ones she respected) to like her, which was why she had ended up darting off to get a drink for the Headmistress before Minerva had been able to articulate that she wanted one.

 _Oh well_ , Hermione thought to herself, it wasn’t the worst character flaw. It wasn’t even the worst one she had. She would just have to try not to be such a suck-up later.

Hermione stood up onto her tiptoes to see over the swarm of people lingering in every direction. Now that the post-ceremony drinks were in full swing, it was hard to see where everyone had got to. The unfamiliar shoes didn’t help. Strappy sandals would not have been her pick for a wedding held in a grass field, but Ginny had _insisted_ that the dress called for something ultra-simple, and, apparently, nude ballet pumps wouldn’t cut it.

Finally, after swaying in the breeze and cursing her stature for several minutes, Hermione saw what she hoped was the back of a Weasley redhead, and set off in that direction. As she moved, Hermione kept seeing her dress twinkle in her peripheral vision and felt it wave around her hips. She was garnering attention, she realised, and Hermione tried not to feel self-conscious and concentrated on walking.

Luna hadn’t wanted bridesmaids, but she had reserved the right to pick the dresses all of her close friends would wear to the occasion. Hermione, having ‘lived through’ the experience of several friends getting married, had been very pleased by not being a bridesmaid. However, when Luna asked her to come to her house and view the dress she had picked, Hermione had been less jubilant. 

To put it bluntly, she had been horrified when she first saw the shimmery silver fabric, but she had resigned herself to shutting her mouth and baring it. It was _Luna’s day_ , and this was important to her. Though once she put it on, Hermione had a change of heart. She had been amazed to find that the dress actually suited her, given how far away from her usual style it was, and now that she’d had a good look at the unbelievable venue, it was clear that she fitted in.

Hermione would never believe that marrying Malfoy was the smartest thing Luna had ever done, but she could admit that her feelings had tempered when she saw the wedding location. It wasn’t just that his family obviously knew how to throw a party, but more that they had clearly taken so much notice of what Luna wanted. Malfoy might have been the most uptight person she knew - and that was saying something coming from her - but he loved his new wife. 

Hermione waved to Dean and Seamus as they walked passed, separated by a few party guests, and then stood up on her toes again to look for her date. He didn’t seem to be standing with the others, and she was conscious that he didn’t know that many people. Her eyes skimmed around until she spotted Remus and Tonks and then she resolutely looked away. 

_I am not looking for Sirius Black. I am at my friend’s wedding, and I have a date. I am not a lovesick child. I am not looking for Sirius Black._

In the distance, Hermione spied Luna, standing next to her very formal mother in law and positively glowing. There had always been something a little fae like about Luna, and now, standing in this setting draped in a silk gown that probably cost as much as the average family car, Luna looked positively ethereal. 

Hermione wondered where Malfoy was? So far that evening, he had bearly let his bride out of his sight. Maybe he was feeling more self-assured now he had put a ring on her finger and changed her last name. 

“Granger.” A crisp voice cut in from the side and Hermione sighed. _Speak of the devil, and he shall appear._

“Malfoy,” she greeted absently, still scanning for her missing date. It was a good job they had put a warming charm on the tea she was still cradling; otherwise, it would have been stone cold by the time she finally delivered it. 

As Malfoy didn’t see fit to say anything else, Hermione turned to glance at him. His face was drawn and severe, even for him. The last time he’d looked that anxious he had been about to let Death Eaters into the school, which, she imagined, was not a comparison she should make out loud. 

“Malfoy is everything… okay?”

“Tea lights, Granger,” he spat. “Where are the _fucking_ tea lights?”

Hermione turned on her heel and looked around the man her friend had married as if the person who had obviously confunded him would be hidden behind his robes. “Malfoy... what are you talking about?”

Malfoy sighed and rubbed his head. “Luna wanted tea lights, _orange ones_. She was very specific about it. They are _supposed_ to be on the tables ahead of the meal, but they’re not there, Granger. Where are they?”

Hermione looked around at a loss as to how _she_ had been dragged into this. “Do you… do you think I took them?”

“Of course I don’t think _you_ took them,” Draco bit out exasperatedly. “What the fuck would _anyone_ do with two hundred and fifty _bright orange_ tea lights.” 

Hermione assumed the question was rhetorical and kept herself from replying. 

“I might not like you Granger, but even I can appreciate that you’re the only one around here that can get anything done.”

Hermione pushed down the involuntary stab of hurt she felt when he so casually admitted that he didn’t like her. It was idiotic in the extreme to care about such a thing. She wasn’t five. Also, it was wholly mutual.

“Careful Malfoy, that was nearly a compliment,” she said instead, focusing on her apparently being useful rather than being unlikeable, with only a degree of bitterness.

Malfoy huffed, and Hermione began to realise that despite his _awful manners_ , he was severely distressed about this, Hermione thought about how she could help. Unfortunately, her moment of contemplation coincided with them being interrupted by Ron, who popped up next to them with a tray laden with food.

Luna had agreed to servers and wait staff for the guest’s arrival and the meal but had convinced Malfoy and his mother that it was a ‘fun’ idea to have some of their friends carry around trays during the pre-dinner drinks. Supposedly it would promote friendliness and conversation. Hermione was rather looking forward to watching Pansy Parkinson schlep around the field with a tray in your hand.

“Can I interest you in a can-ape?” Ron asked, brandishing the tray under Malfoy’s nose, almost _daring_ him to take one. Hermione _really_ hoped he hadn’t spat on any of them. She assumed Ron was too mature for that but, to be fair, Malfoy was a prick, and he’d made no secret of his disdain for any of them. Ron had never coped well with that.

Hermione would have imagined Ron would have had more issues with being one of the distributors, but then, Ron had decided on having a quiet a few pre-drinks in order to get through the ceremony. Which, now Hermione thought of it, was probably something they all should have done.

Draco rubbed his forehead. “Canapé, Weasley for the love of Merlin, it’s a _canapé_.”

“And?” Ron replied with a disinterested shrug.

“And?” Malfoy parroted, making a not very complimentary but surprisingly accurate approximation of Ron’s voice. “Your lack of breeding is showing Weasley.”

Ron scoffed. “I’m not the one getting married in a muddy field, Malfoy.”

The skin beneath Malfoy’s eye twitched, and Hermione was incredibly glad she was present for what she thought was the _first time_ Ron had ever gotten the best of Malfoy verbally. She was pretty sure Ron could have pasted him if it came to fists, but she hoped didn’t, for Luna’s sake.

“You’re not getting married _at all_ Ronald,” Malfoy hissed out from between gritted teeth. “Now that _even_ Granger won’t have you, I imagine it’s game over, isn’t it? You going to give up on love and ask to live in Potter’s basement?”

Hermione bit her lip to stop herself from saying anything; she knew from experience that it wouldn’t help. Malfoy and Ron continued to exchange barbs until, suddenly, Malfoy sagged. 

“I’ve got you fuckers for the rest of my life.”

Hermione almost giggled at the dramatic outburst but managed to control it. She decided it was time to move things along. “Yes, and you also have Luna. And we get… _better_?” She tried, and Ron shrugged. Hermione considered. “We improve over time.”

Malfoy, if anything, looked more depressed by that news and Hermione tried to remind herself that the reason he was so cranky was that he wanted to make sure the day went perfectly for her friend. It was time to put on her big girl pants. 

“Here, Ron, take this,” she instructed and put the teacup on his tray. “Malfoy, take a breath, I’ll go and find your tea lights.”

Hermione took off in the direction of the supply tent she had seen when on her way to the ceremony - one that Malfoy probably had no idea existed - and had to edge past a pretty sizable bonfire that had been set up on the outskirts of the event. The sky was just beginning to darken, and a few people were gathered around it. It would look beautiful later when they came out after dinner.

Hermione cursed her shoes as they slowed her down but eventually, she made it through the tide of people and into the darkest tent there.

* * *

Sirius had been standing by the bonfire when he had seen her. Hermione had cut across the field entirely unaware of the world around her, clearly fixed on a goal. Seeing her pacing, intent on whatever task she had been given, was a treat. The luminous fabric of her dress seemed to undulate around her body, barely supported by the thinnest spaghetti steps Sirius had ever seen.

It was alluring and endlessly maddening. 

He _had_ to follow her. 

Sirius set his drink down on a nearby table and made some excuse. He would have got away cleanly without arousing any attention if it hadn’t been for Remus putting a hand on his shoulder and letting it linger.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” his friend asked. The note of concern was not unfamiliar, nor was Remus knowing something before he was expressly told. But it wasn’t the time. At any moment, Hermione could be swallowed up in another crowd of guests, and he’d lose his chance again. He’d have to wait until some other event, where she brought some other date, or maybe even the same one. 

“Not really,” he shrugged, and he offered Remus what he hoped was a convincing smile.

Remus snorted. “As long as you’ve got that sorted then.”

Sirius found her surprisingly quickly. She had been heading towards the ‘service’ area, wearing something that shone and going in a direction where the crowds were thinning. Hermione stood out. But then, Sirius supposed, she always did. 

Sirius found himself inside a tent stacked in all directions with assorted wedding paraphernalia. He imagined most of this must have been in case of a _plan b_ as the weather definitely didn’t warrant the sheer amount of umbrellas that were arranged in full bins. 

“What are you doing?” He asked as soon as he found her. Hermione was crouched in front of some racking, peering through partly opened boxes.

“Looking for orange _fucking_ tea lights.”

“What?” he asked as he stepped towards her. He could count on one hand the number of times he had heard Hermione swear and all of those times she had been beyond angry. Right now she didn’t sound remotely mad.

She giggled, proving him right, though the sound made his chest hurt. 

“Don’t ask,” she replied and then wrestled another box open, peeking inside before she discounted it and moved further down the racking.

Sirius shook off whatever she was on about and moved further away from the opening of the tent. The heavy fabric door closed behind him, taking all of the natural light with it. The tent wasn’t as richly illuminated as the ones designed for guests use, but there was still enough light for him to see Hermione as she flitted about.

He glanced up in the darkness and shut his eyes, focusing in on the sound of her rustling too and fro. 

“So, who’s what’s his name?” he asked, gripping a shelf next to him and watching Hermione intently.

“Who do you mean?” Hermione asked. She spun on her heel so Sirius could see she was holding what looked like hundreds of napkins before she gently placed them back into a packing box.

“Your… _date_ ,” Sirius replied, barely refraining from growling the word.

“Michael?” Hermione said, blinking in confusion. She shrugged. “He works with Bill. Fleur introduced me.”

Sirius licked his lips and took a step closer. “To what end?”

“I’m sorry?” she asked, tilting her head to the side and putting her hand on her hip. The sparkly fabric gathered and puckered under her fingers and Sirius itched to feel it under his hands.

“To. What. End?” he repeated with emphasis. “ _Why_ did Fleur introduce you?”

Hermione shrugged, but she took a step backwards, Sirius wondered whether she was conscious that she had done it. He didn’t like her feeling like she _had_ to back away from him, but deep down he knew she wasn’t afraid, not in any real sense anyway.

“I’m single, Sirius,” she said as if it explained everything. “Attached witches introduce me to potential men all the time.”

“So this Michael is a _potential_ man then is he?” Sirius sneered. “How exciting for you.”

Hermione frowned and did that thing he had seen her do a million times where she managed to look down at someone even though they were at least a foot taller than her. “Well, he’s a _real_ man, Sirius.”

Sirius’ fists clenched and he _tried_ to keep his temper. This wasn’t the way he had wanted this to go, but the woman in front of him _knew_ him, she knew what buttons to press to make his argument derail. Maybe if he cared less, he could hold back his emotions, be more articulate. Jealousy wasn’t a feeling he’d had a tremendous amount of experience with but he felt it now, it lanced through him like a warm blade, and so he did what he always did… took what he was feeling and lashed out. 

“You didn’t waste any time,” he jeered. He sounded unnecessary antagonistic, but he couldn’t help it. Anger was natural to manifest in his voice, and it did an excellent job of smothering any trace of hurt.

Hermione’s brow furrowed, and he watched her straighten up. “Excuse me?” she hissed.

Sirius scoffed. “Already commenting on his _virility_ , Hermione, you’ve only been here a few hours-”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and she changed tack immediately. She went from retreating into the shelving to stalking forward and invading the space he had left between them. 

“I’m sorry,” she spat sarcastically, “are _you_ making some kind of judgement-”

“Would I?” he drawled, but Hermione wasn’t knocked off course.

“-because people in glass houses Sirius.”

“Here we go,” he shouted with a wave of his arm. “Lay it on me, Hermione.” 

“What are you talking about? _You_ started this.”

“You know what I mean,” Sirius bit out. “You’re gearing up to give a _little speech_ about how I’m a womaniser, aren’t you?”

“That’s not what I said,” Hermione protested hotly, but Sirius ignored her.

“It’s what you meant.”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and stomped, muttering to herself when she had to wrench her heel out of the damp grass beneath her feet. “Don’t extrapolate meaning from words that didn’t’ indicate them.”

Sirius sneered at her posturing. “Don’t use big words to try and confuse and distract, it might work on the boys, but it doesn’t on me.”

“Why are you so angry?” Hermione asked.

Sirius deflated and took his own step back. “I don’t know that I would call myself… _angry._ ”

“I don’t know…” Hermione said, waving between them. “Put out then?”

There was silence, Sirius stopped himself from replying instantly and in the seconds that followed he knew he had no choice. He couldn’t just leave after having picked a fight with her for no reason. It was better to tell her and deal with the consequences than to ignore it any longer. 

“You flirted with me,” he insisted softly.

“What? When?” Hermione asked as if she had no idea what he was talking about. But she flushed and wrapped her arms tighter around herself. It wasn’t a defensive crossed arm now; it was more like she was folding in on herself.

“You’ve _been_ flirting with me,” Sirius repeated in a tone that would broker no refusal. He wasn’t going to let her pretend it hadn’t happened. He’d had moments of delusion in his life, but when it came to Hermione, he thought he saw everything a little too clearly for his own good. 

“I thought maybe something might have….” he said, but he couldn’t force himself to finish his half uttered thought. “And then you turn up with him.”

“Sirius,” she sighed, and he hated her conciliatory tone.

“You’re running scared,” he accused, and Hermione’s face hardened.

“Of what?”

“Of _me!_ ”

Hermione scoffed, but he saw the flicker of panic in her eyes. He both hated it and loved it all at once. Sirius didn’t want it to be like this. He had wanted to be able to do this the normal way, ask her to dinner or a drink or something but he’d already known she would have tried to brush it off as if he was joking. 

“You know this is something,” he gestured between them with jerky movements. “This is _real_ , and I won’t let you run away Hermione, you _have_ to front this.”

“You won’t _let_ me?” Hermione said in a voice he knew to be afraid of, but Sirus refused to be cowed.

“You heard me.”

“Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

“Hermione.”

“No,” she interjected hotly, pressing a determined finger against his chest. “It’s _my_ turn to talk now Sirius. I will admit that over the last few months I have…. I noticed you, noticing me and at first I thought it was a… passing thing. Then it wasn’t and I… I suppose I returned your interest.”

The causal admittance made the hard expression fall off his face. He couldn’t believe she had admitted it. He’d expected to have to keep telling her over and over until she would listen. However, Hermione wasn’t finished.

“But you _never_ made any move,” she continued and sagged against a shelf behind her. Suddenly she looked more vulnerable than she had in a long time. Sirius didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

“I wasn’t going to wait around for you to decide if I was worth it.”

Approaching her carefully, Sirius placed his hands on her bare arms. “That wasn’t it at all,” he admitted. “I… I was scared too.”

Hermione scoffed, and Sirius’ hold on her shoulders tightened. “That I don’t believe. I can’t imagine you find me intimidating.”

She looked up at him, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears he wanted to kiss away. He held one of his hands against her cheek and rubbed her flushed skin with his thumb.

“Not you, although sometimes love you can be really fucking scary. I suppose I was scared of what you represent, what liking you came to mean.”. 

Hermione stared up at him and wetted her lips. Sirius tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “And what’s that then?”

“Forever,” he said. The word fell out and into the atmosphere before Sirius had the chance to check it, but he couldn’t be too angry with himself. It needed to be said. 

“Sirius…”

“I’m in love with you,” he said and stood before her. It was probably the most honest moment of his life. He wondered if she knew how much power she had over him at that moment. If she rejected him, he thought he might finally break. Reckless he may have always been, but not in matters of the heart, he guarded that more fiercely than a Dragon did her eggs, even more so now that it had been broken a hundred times. But it was hers if she wanted it. 

“Really?” she asked in a voice that was bordering on husky.

“Yes,” he affirmed quickly.

“Wow.”

Sirius chuckled. _Wow_ , he told her he loved her, and he got… wow. One of the most articulate, well-read people he’d ever met, and he gets a one-word reply. Despite himself, he smiled.

“No protest? No telling me to keep my pretty words for my lady loves?”

“I… I don’t think you would do that to me,” Hermione admitted quietly, and she flushed as if she was scared that he would contradict her. Sirius had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

There was silence and stillness, and then there was the opposite. Hermione stood back up, and she and Sirius forcefully collided. He couldn’t tell if she’d made a move or he had, but it didn’t really matter. They were locked onto each other, his hands diving into her hair that she had blessedly left down as hers were running over the front of his thin shirt. 

It escalated quickly. There had been too much pent up emotion, and now there was a sign of release it didn’t appear either of them had a hope of stopping, despite their less than ideal location. As soon as Hermione moaned into his mouth after he palmed her breast, it was game over. Sirius didn’t feel like he could go on breathing until he had made a thorough investigation of _every_ sound she made. 

Hermione reached a hand down towards his belt, and Sirius almost whimpered with relief. A moment after she had prized the leather through the metal she moved to pull at the back of her dress, but Sirius grabbed her hands desperately. 

“Keep the dress on,” he pleaded. He’d been staring at her in it all night, watching that boy touch her as if she was his. “The dress, the shoes, keep it all on.”

She nodded against his hands, and Sirius smiled at her before twisting her round to move her against a post. There was no way the racking behind them would have been secure enough, and as frantic as he was, he would never let her be harmed by his haste. 

When Sirius reached a hand up her skirt and felt the distinctive clips and ties that indicated she was wearing a garter belt, he swore under his breath, and Hermione laughed. 

For a while, everything became about _need_. It had been wanting for so long, and it had been all-consuming, and yet this was something more. 

The light that he had watched so diligently all evening, bounced over his skin and rainbows skirted his fingers as he held her skirt up. Sirius felt her breath in his ear, and her hands at his neck and he gave her all he had and then some more, over and over again until they both shattered and reformed as something new altogether. 

Sirius rested his head against her cheek as he let her legs fall back to the ground, and he circled her hips with his arms as he felt her shaking. 

As Hermione caught her breath, Sirius looked at her. He saw the flush of her cheeks, the mess of her hair and the whiteness of her eyes. He kissed her until his heart slowed down until it felt real.

“Ah,” Hermione said as her head rested against the post behind them. “There they are.” She pointed above Sirius’ shoulder to a tray of orange fairy lights on a shelf by the front door. “I don’t suppose you could get those down, could you?”

Sirius had no more clue what she was talking about then he had earlier, but he saw the sparkle in her eyes and the quirk of her lips and a small tendril of fear that had been silently growing disappeared. 

“Yes, dear.”

* * *

Hermione came out of the supply tent self consciously straightening her skirt. She was pretty sure she had lost a few sequins in the last few moments, and she didn’t want to look in case any of the lost patches looked too much like handprints. Ignorance was bliss. Sirius trailed after her, levitating a massive tray of orange tea lights and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Could you dial back the grin? No one looks that happy to have found candles,” she hissed.

“Sorry petal,” he replied, sounding anything but. “Don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

“Sirius,” she warned, but he just smiled wider.

“Do you have any idea what you feel like, Hermione?” he said, lowering his voice and glancing at her intently. “If I were the sort of man that believe in enlightenment I think I may have believed I found it, between your legs.”

“For the love of Merlin,” Hermione muttered but then stopped short of whatever she was going to verbally throw back at Sirius as Malfoy appeared.

“Granger,” Malfoy bit out, pinching his nose with evident exasperation.

“I’ve found your tea lights,” Hermione said, smiling like a maniac and hoping she didn’t look obvious. Though her face did feel very warm and she had no idea what her hair looked like.

“Yes, I can see that,” Malfoy said, looking between her and Sirius. “Did you just have sex at my wedding? In a supply tent?”

For a moment, Hermione thought the floor beneath her might have opened up to swallow her whole. Then she realised it was just her heels sinking into the grass. 

“Why would you think that?” she asked with a false laugh no one was buying. 

She was saved from Malfoy’s reply by Luna appearing, beaming at all of them and delighting over the found tealights. 

“Lovebug, not now,” Malfoy whispered, and Hermione promised herself that no matter how much she drank that night (which, given the last hour was likely to be a lot more than planned) she _needed_ to remember that to tell Ron later. 

“What is it?” Luna asked as she trailed a finger over Malfoy’s jaw. Just like that, he transformed, his brow softened, and the pinch in his cheek disappeared. He had mellowed, completely, until Sirius coughed and Malfoy looked away from his new bride and gritted his teeth. 

“These two just had sex in the supply tent,” he revealed, and Hermione wanted to cry.

Luna gasped. “Really?”

_Oh, god._

“Yes,” Hermione began and then faltered. _How did you even begin to apologise for something like this?_ She hoped she would get out of there before Narcissa found out. 

“Oh, Hermione,” Luna said with a smile that would have lit up a room. “That was so wonderful of you, what a blessing. Such a thoughtful gift.”

Hermione was rendered mute, and Malfoy was doing his best to talk Luna into being as furious as he was, but if the dreamy expression on her face was anything to go by, it wasn’t working.

“We are… glad to be of service,” Sirius said as he draped his arm around her. “But I am afraid I need to steal Hermione away now.”

He steered her from the newlyweds and towards the dining tent. The light had fallen, and people were beginning to drift towards the welcoming looking tent in clusters of two or three. 

“Come on, let’s say goodbye to Michael,” Sirius said with forced cheer, and Hermione fought against his hold to stop in her tracks.

“Why?”

“Because I need to take you somewhere that’s _not a tent_ so I can take my time,” Sirius said, then he winked. An actual, honest to goodness wink. 

“So you can lay down, you mean?” 

Sirius chuckled. “Are you always this mean?”

“Yes,” she replied, and she then grabbed his hand, despite the growing chill, it was really warm.

-/-/-/-

Sirius looked at Hermione as their hands linked. For once, it seemed things had gone better than he had anticipated. 

“Anyway we can’t disappear yet,” Hermione said, and Sirius felt the edges of his excellent mood begin to erode. “They haven’t even served dinner, and I have to stay to see the first dance at the very least.”

Sirius’ brow pinched, and his grip on Hermione’s hand tightened. She took a step closer to him, but he remained still. “She’s my friend, and I’ve not exactly covered myself in glory this evening.”

“I don’t know what you mean? You found the tea lights didn’t you?” Sirius tried for humour even though he wasn’t feeling very much like laughing. “Fine, I suppose, but don’t moan at me later if I’m not in a good mood.”

“It’s a wedding Sirius, a happy occasion, Malfoy notwithstanding, and all our friends are here.”

Typically, Hermione’s happiness would have ensured his own, but not then. “Yes,” he agreed, “and I’m going to have to watch you get pawed at for the next two hours.”

He saw the realisation dawn on Hermione’s face, and it was a relief to realise that she hadn’t been willfully ignorant of his feelings. She tugged on his arm, and they carried on walking towards the tent. 

“I’ll tell Michael I’m not interested,” she said as they weaved through the crowds. 

Sirius’ chest felt tight. “You will?”

“Yes,” she said with a nod that worsened the already manic state of her curls. “Then later, you can take me home.”

They walked towards their friends, and Sirius saw Remus raise an eyebrow and it made him want to laugh. Before they could reach the tent, Hermione pulled on his arm until he was walking closer to her and then she pushed herself into his side.

“I love you too,” she all but whispered. “I thought you should know.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” he replied when he found his voice. “I will do my best to deserve it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but gripped his hand tight, and they walked towards the light spilling out onto the cooling ground. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello lovelies! You may already know this but my fan cast for Fenrir is Michael Fassbender (typically as he looked in 300 - I mean, hello you feral dreamboat!) this fic was heavily inspired by scenes from Macbeth. This fic is the start of a new one-shot series of multiple pairings.


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